


What comes after the storm

by Unicorn_farm (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:32:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Unicorn_farm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The result of too many "debutante is ruined" romance novels. Inquisitor Trevelyan is an older widow who brought her younger traveling companion along with her to the Conclave. Drama will ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is short because it has a prologue, I guess!

Prologue

Rosemary’s childhood was uneventful. She was born to a minor Kirkwall noble family, the second child of five and the first girl of three. Her parents had ambitions of raising the family’s standing among the other Kirkwall nobility, and saw their children as the best means of making the connections to make those ambitions become reality. To that end, the education provided to them was exemplary. They were taught in the social graces, conversation and dance, in academia, maths, literature, and history, and in the practical, household management and the keeping of accounts.

She excelled in the academic and the practical, but she struggled to learn the art of conversation. Socializing was a cause of great anxiety to her as a child; unlike her peers, she preferred reading a dry history tome or tallying columns of numbers over playing at “Mages and Templars.” Neither was she exceptional in actual graces. While she could follow the steps of a dance when lead, she was more prone to trip than glide across a floor.

She grew up slightly apart from the other noble children, with a reputation for superiority and weirdness, as her nervousness often left her blurting out the first thoughts that came to mind during conversations. She almost preferred it that way, as being left alone meant not having to face her fear of socializing, but it was a lonely upbringing.

Her chances of making an advantageous match, however, were still high. Her family name was old, though not among the elite, and the dowry settled upon her was generous. As the eldest daughter, the hope was that she would marry well and use the ensuing increase in status to help find spouses for her older brother and younger siblings, and her dowry was considered an investment.

Her coming out ball coincided with the end of the Fifth Blight. In Kirkwall, the blight had caused little more than rumours and an influx of refugees; in Hightown, the blight was only a background, adding flavour to the news that a noblewoman had joined the Grey Wardens, defeated the Archdemon, and engaged herself to the king who had been the bastard half-brother of the previous king. Kirkwall’s nobility was nothing if not hungry for gossip.

The ball was as successful as it could have been. She danced adequately, she conversed awkwardly, and she was introduced to many potential eligible matches.

It was there that she met him.

He was young, handsome, and Orlesian. She was eighteen, naïve, and lonely. He was not considered a proper match, being from a penniless branch of a family on the outskirts of Orlesian nobility. She did not question why he was in Kirkwall and not Orlais. They kept it a secret, stealing kisses in the shadowed gardens of parties, in hidden alcoves at a ball.

Months later, the rumours had moved on from the blight to the new Queen of Ferelden also being the Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, and the new young Knight-Captain from Ferelden recently promoted by Meredith. Ferelden had never been paid much attention by Kirkwall’s nobles, and now it was on everyone’s lips. Presumably, the Bastard King, Grey Warden Queen, and barbarian Templar were too juicy for anyone to worry about their secret trysts.

She thought, back then, that he loved her, truly and sincerely. That they were going to run away together, live in genteel poverty. She had no thought of how they would support themselves. The practicality of such a plan was not at the forefront of her mind, caught up in a wild romance.

When he told her at that party that he had finally found a way for them to be together, she believed him. They would be married, he said, and live in Orlais. Now that they had plans, he said, they could finally consummate their love. It couldn’t be wrong if they were to be married.

He led her to a room off the main hall, one he insisted no one ever entered. The act itself was painful; the kisses that had been so passionate before felt perfunctory, and there was little ceremony before he lifted her skirts and entered her. She told herself he was too eager to wait.

The pain of act, though, did not compare to the pain of what happened after.

As he finished with a grunt, spilling himself on her thighs, the de Launcet sisters entered the room. She could barely hear their high-pitched squeals of titillated shock over the feeling of her heart pounding and the blood rushing to her head as she scrambled to cover up.

What she did hear was his words to the sisters.

“Rosemary told you Rosemary could get her to do it. And even sooner than you guessed. You owe her ten silver.”

She fled from the party, to her home, and she barricaded herself in her room. Something inside her had broken along with her maidenhead.

Of course, the knowledge of her downfall had spread like wildfire throughout the noble quarter. She found out that he had a fiancée in Orlais. So not only was she ruined, she had ruined herself with someone who was not even available for a quick marriage to fix her reputation.

She found herself uninvited from the ballrooms and salons. Worse still, she found her family was shunned by those who had once been considered friends. Her parents were kind, but she knew what she had to do to protect them. She had to leave, and they had to pretend they had exiled her in shame.

The dowry that had been intended for her husband instead went to her, her parents’ attempt to help salve the pain of her unwanted exile. She chose to travel to Ferelden, in the belief that a country embarking on a new path would be the best place for her to embark on her own new path.

Finding work once there proved to be difficult. She was ill-suited to tavern work, discomfited by the need to socialize and the grabby hands. She fared better as an inn clerk; her education in household management and accounts were useful to the innkeeper.

It was at the inn that she met her saviour. An older Free Marcher noblewoman, widowed in the blight while traveling with her husband, stayed at the inn and mentioned she was looking for a companion on her travels. After Lady Evelyn’s husband had died and the blight had ended, she had decided that the time to see the world was now. 

Rosemary volunteered. That was the year that the Qunari attacked Kirkwall. Maker’s grace, but her family survived that, and the chantry explosion, too.

They traveled for a few years, from Antiva to Nevarra. Traveling taught Rosemary to overcome her fear of socializing better than any ball had; while the fear might still be there, she was now able to push past it.

Evelyn initially attempted to play matchmaker, but soon caught on to Rosemary’s discomfort with romance. While Evelyn still held hope for Rosemary (insisting Rosemary was too young and beautiful to be alone forever, and tutted at her when Rosemary reminded Evelyn that beauty was in the eye of the beholder and Evelyn was biased), her lady did not push any of the interested men on Rosemary.

When the war between the mages and Templars began, it greatly restricted their travel. Evelyn’s modest manor in Ostwick was where they spent most of their time during the following year, Evelyn grasping at every piece of news about the war, and Rosemary managing the household. They settled into a routine, comfortable but boring.

When Evelyn heard of the gathering at Haven, she insisted they be there. Evelyn had never visited the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and she could not miss such a historical event as the meeting of the Mages and Templars.

And so, they went. They arrived at Haven later in the evening, and Evelyn insisted that Rosemary go to the inn and make sure their room was ready and that their items were carried in. She continued on to the Temple to pay her respects to the Ashes, and Rosemary wish to the Maker that she hadn’t let her go.

The sky was torn open that night.

Chapter 1

Rosemary was in their room, rummaging through their chests for their nightclothes when Rosemary felt the explosion as a heavy weight in her chest. The sound of it followed soon after, a terrible clash of sound louder than thunder, more terrifying than a scream.

Rosemary ran outside, pushing through the crowd of people with the same idea, cursing her lack of height as she was knocked about. 

The difference in the atmosphere didn’t register at first. The mind wants to make sense of what it sees, and her first thought was that it must be a cloud reflecting some green light below, because what else is in the sky?

When reality hit, Rosemary had to fight back the urge to vomit. She couldn’t explain how unnatural a sight it was, but you could feel the wrongness of it, even before your eyes registered the demons that were falling from it like tainted shooting stars, falling above the spot the temple laid upon.

Oh, Maker, the Temple. Lady Evelyn. Rosemary didn’t stop to think; she just clutched a fistful of her skirt to hike the hem to her knees and ran towards the path to the temple, blind to everything around her.

The breath was knocked out of her when an arm clad in plate wrapped around her waist, hauling her back away from the path.

“Maker’s breath, woman, do you have a death wish?” growled the owner of the arm, pushing her back before releasing her. “Stay down here, and help prepare for the wounded. We are going to need all the aid they can find.”

The man had turned and run up the path before Rosemary even had a chance to see his face. The only detail Rosemary could see from behind was a fur cloak over his shoulders - the only light was from flickering torches carried by other soldiers streaming towards the path and the unnatural green cast on everything from the sky.

Rosemary rubbed her ribs where the man’s arm had caught. There would be a bruise, she knew, but she couldn’t help but feel grateful that he had paused to stop her. She had no battle training. The only thing Rosemary could do when faced with a demon was die or be possessed, and neither of those things would help her lady.

Sighing and worrying at her lower lip, Rosemary turned back to Haven to seek out someone who looked like they were in charge. She was no healer, but she was certain she could at the very least manage to tear bandages.

 

Several hours later, her hands were chafed from tearing so many bandages, but the need had not ended. The fighting had been continuous; every time a wave was beaten back, a new one fell from the breach in the sky. The soldiers had been organized into waves, too, in order to rest as many as possible. There wasn’t an army on hand, and whoever was in charge was trying to keep what they did have as efficient as possible.

And so Rosemary tore bandages until the number of wounded rose to the point where she was forced to help use those bandages. She had absolutely no experience with healing, but she had learned embroidery and the healer told her stitching a wound was not much different than stitching a pillow.

It turns out that he was not correct about that. Your pillow did not flinch or bleed, and your fabric did not smell of blood and an undefinable wrongness that Rosemary could only assume was demon ichor. You did not have to worry about spoiling the entire case because you had not slept in too long.

Rosemary stitched, and tore bandages, and helped to hold people still until the early hours of the dawn. The healer had sent half the people who had volunteered to try to get some rest, and they were expected to relieve them soon.

Rosemary was applying a bandage overtop the wound she had just sewn shut when a tall man supported by two other men was carried into the building they were using as the field office.

Rosemary recognized his fur cloak. She couldn’t have very well recognized anything else, as she had only seen the back of him, but that odd cloak was unmistakeable, and Rosemary took the opportunity to study her saviour from foolhardy death as she wound the bandage. 

In proper lighting, Rosemary could see his sweat-dampened hair was blonde, and curling softly as it dried. His face was drawn from exhaustion, but even so, Rosemary found herself distracted by how incredibly handsome he was. His features were strong, but not coarse, and a scar bisected his upper lip, saving the soft, shapely curves of it from being almost feminine. 

The soldiers were removing the armour over one of his thighs, revealing a large, shallow gash overlaying the strongly muscled appendage, lightly furred skin peeking from the edges of the tear in his breeches.

Maker, she was ogling a man’s wounded leg. She scolded herself; she really must have been exhausted, she thought.

The healer himself was attending to the man, so Rosemary assumed he was someone important. Or else the healer was as eager for an excuse to touch the collared man’s skin as Rosemary was. 

Rosemary could hear the healer saying something about how it was only a flesh wound, which made her feel slightly better about staring at his bared flesh. Oh, but he was handsome.

The soldier Rosemary had been assisting cleared her throat and gave her arm a significant glance when Rosemary looked back at her. Rosemary had stopped wrapping. She had never been so distracted by a pretty face before.

“I apologise. I have not had a chance to rest yet,” Rosemary said, and then felt foolish, complaining to a woman who had just had her arm torn open by a demon.

“The commander is quite handsome,” the woman said, and winked at her.

Rosemary smiled back as she tucked the ends of the bandage in under the folds, making sure that it would not unwind.

“The commander?” Rosemary asked, trying for a casual tone. “I only arrived in Haven a few hours ago, as the…” Rosemary trailed off. Lady Evelyn was still missing.

Rosemary busied herself clearing away the elfroot salve and needle and thread.

“Well, they are all done here. I hope you are able to get some rest before going back up there?” Rosemary said as the soldier flexed her arm tentatively.

The solider nodded. “Commander Cullen” – she gestured with her head at the man in the fur collar – “insists the wounded take a couple of hours before going back out.”

Cullen. The name suited him.

“I am glad,” Rosemary said to the soldier. “Please stay safe.”

The soldier smiled grimly, and said, “I will do my best.”

The collared man – Cullen, Rosemary reminded herself – was already standing and buckling his leg armour back on.

“He can’t mean to go back out there without resting,” Rosemary muttered to herself.

“Oh, but he definitely does,” said a voice behind Rosemary, causing her to jump and knock over the elfroot salve she had just tidied away. 

Rosemary spun around to see the healer’s assistant had arrived, and the other volunteers were beginning to arrive behind. Rosemary sagged with relief. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until she could see the end of it.

Rosemary glanced back to where Cullen had been, but he was no longer there. She couldn’t imagine how exhausted he was from fighting when she was so drained from much less exertion.

“Maker keep him safe,” Rosemary thought, her heart constricting at the idea that he could get hurt, though Rosemary hadn’t even so much as thanked him for stopping her.

Truly, Rosemary needed to rest if Rosemary was as overwrought as to be feeling emotions for a stranger.

 

Cullen pushed back the exhaustion, ignoring the pain in his thigh as he strode up the steep path back to the temple. They had found a survivor at the Temple, lying unconscious among the rubble. Cassandra and Leliana had taken her back to the Chantry at Haven to question her when she awoke, but it had already been hours; until then, he and his soldiers needed to hold back the tide of demons from reaching Haven.

The elven apostate who had arrived with Cassandra and offered to help with healing had seemed more interested in the strange marking on the survivor’s hand than on the survivor herself, Cullen thought. He did not trust the man, though Cassandra had seemed to accept his presence. Probably because the apostate – Solas – had been the only mage around to offer an opinion.

Cullen was still unsure why Varric was here, and accompanying Cassandra. The dwarf had made no secret of his active dislike of the Seeker, but in spite of that, had continued to stay in Haven while the Conclave was gathering.

Probably planning on writing a new novel, Cullen thought. “Of Mages and Templars,” a doomed romance between an apostate mage and a rogue Templar recorded in two volumes. Well, Cullen was glad to have the dwarf and his crossbow around, regardless of any potentially selfish reasons.

Cullen dispensed praise and the occasional pat on the shoulder to the soldiers taking a brief break along the path as he passed them on his way to the Temple ruins. Maker knew he didn’t expect them to go like Orlesian automatons; no, he reserved that expectation for himself, he thought grimly. Cullen knew he could not sleep knowing there were demons so close, and so he was pushing himself to the limit.

Cullen settled his shield on his left arm, and drew his sword with his right as he arrived at the outskirts of the Temple ruins.


	2. Chapter 2

After sleeping for what felt like five minutes, Rosemary woke to the sounds of a crowd forming outside the inn. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she rose and quickly changed from her nightclothes into a simple dark dress before running down the steps and outside.

She tried to get the attention of a few people who were streaming past, towards the chantry, but everyone brushed her off or else shrugged that they didn’t know. Giving up on finding out why the crowd was gathering, Rosemary joined the flow. She slipped through the people, her small size that had made it difficult to get through the panicking people the previous night making it easier to edge between curious people in the current day.

The people at the edge of the crowd by the gate were packed more tightly, making it difficult to actually see what they were looking at. Rosemary craned her neck, trying to see over the shoulders of the people in front of her before she gave up and gently tapped someone on the shoulder, who was kind enough to move aside enough for her to see.

The crowd had gathered around two women heading towards the path to the temple. One was dressed in Seeker armour, with short dark hair held back with a braid. The other was an older woman, head bowed, her wrists in chains. A green glow echoing the tear in the sky emitted from her left hand.

“What’s going on?” Rosemary asked the man next to her.

“They say she was found in the Temple. They say she killed the Divine.” The man spat on the ground.

The tone of the crowd had turned angry, the rumour spreading through it like wildfire. Cries of “murderer!” and “heretic” rose out, causing the prisoner to raise her head and look back just before her Seeker captor led her through the gate.

“Lady Evelyn!” Rosemary gasped as the gates shut behind her.

Evelyn was wearing a set of clothing Rosemary had never seen before, but there was no mistake. Evelyn had survived. But killed the Divine? There was no way that Evelyn would have ever; Evelyn’s family were devout Andrastians. And even if they weren’t, there was no way Evelyn could have caused that explosion. She had gone to the Temple as a pilgrim, for Maker’s sake, Rosemary knew Evelyn had carried nothing with her that could have even remotely done such a thing as the breach in the sky.

Rosemary’s mind was racing, panic causing thoughts to skitter about like startled insects. She knew Evelyn hadn’t done it. But the gates were closed, and no one was being allowed through until the demons were dealt with, so Rosemary could not chase after the Seeker and explain.

And even if she did, why would the Seeker believe her? They were both strangers. Rosemary wouldn’t believe herself in the same circumstances.

And that green glow on Evelyn’s hand. Where did it come from? It hadn’t been there last night, before she had gone up to the Temple.

And by the Maker, why had Evelyn even gone up there last night? Rosemary knew the older woman often preferred the peace of the chantry in the evening, when few were around, but why didn’t she rest first? It had been a long trip, and Rosemary had urged Evelyn to rest first. If Evelyn had listened, would any of this have happened?

Rosemary cursed, knowing these thoughts were useless.

The crowd had begun to disperse when one of the healer’s assistants found Rosemary still standing by the gate.

“Are you still able to help?” the assistant asked, startling Rosemary out of her daze.

“Of course, if I am still needed,” Rosemary replied.

The assistant shook his head grimly. “The need keeps growing. They need to do something about those demons before we are overrun.”

Rosemary glanced up at the sky again. 

“What can we do about that?” she said softly.

The assistant shrugged and turned back towards the medical tents, and Rosemary followed. At least she was able to help with this.

Maker, she prayed Evelyn was all right.

***********************

Rosemary was back to tearing bandages. The healer and his assistants had all managed some sleep during the night, so the medical staff was at full strength for the day. She was glad of it, really; she’d had to fight the urge to apologize each time her needle pierced the skin or her unpracticed bandage application had made a soldier wince.

She neatly folded the last strip and placed it atop the stacks she had built on the shelving beside her and reached down for a new sheet, only to find the space empty.

“Excuse me,” she called out to a passing healer’s assistant, “but are there any more sheets left?”

“No, what was there were all that could be spared,” the assistant replied.

“Oh,” Rosemary said, biting the inside of her lip. “So… what should I do now?”

The assistant shrugged and went back to what he had been doing.

Okay, Rosemary thought, she obviously was no longer needed here. She slipped out the back of the tent. The air outside was much cooler than she had remembered, and she shivered and drew her cloak tight around her as her eyes went, inevitably, back to the tear in the sky.

It was still visible in the bright light of midday, churning in the sky like a vile cauldron full of… ick. Ick was the best word to describe it, Rosemary thought.

She turned back to the inn when a flash of green light from the sky blinded her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain, before opening them and blinking the tears away until her sight cleared, desperate to see what had caused it.

The breach was, well, it was still there, but it seemed lesser than it had been moments before, and there appeared to be no more demons falling from it. But how had it happened? Did it have something to do with Evelyn?

Without the work at the medical tent to help distract her, Rosemary could not help but worry about Evelyn. Had she been there when the change to the breach happened? Was she okay?

Rosemary sighed and went back to her room, thinking to unpack Evelyn’s things. Evelyn would not want to spend a moment longer in those clothes they had provided for her than she had to, and Rosemary could, if nothing else, make sure there was a decent outfit for Evelyn to change into.

If they let her…

************

Cullen collapsed on the closest rock he could find the moment he saw that the breach was no longer growing. He briefly allowed his exhaustion to take over, resting his forearms across his knees and letting his shoulder sag forward, taking a deep breath and relaxing his muscles as he let it out.

Maker’s breath. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope for anything when he received the message from Cassandra to push forward to the Temple grounds. But after seeing the prisoner close the rift, he hadn’t been able to stop the faint spark of it in his chest.

Hope – such a fragile, tenuous thing, but its roots went deep, and now he could allow himself to hope that the might even be able to close the breach entirely.

Cullen straightened and stood, groaning as his muscles protested. The adrenaline of the battle was wearing off, and his body felt as if it were made of jelly. He trained daily, but even his battle-trained body was not made to withstand more than twelve hours of constant near-death experiences. He would be feeling the ache for days.

Perhaps, he thought wryly, he might be able to sleep without nightmares for once. Maybe that was the solution to all his problems; fight demons for a night and half a day after a full day’s work, sleep well.

He’d sent his soldiers down once Cassandra had arrived with the prisoner, but hadn’t allowed himself to go back until he knew for sure which way the tide was going to turn. He would need to make a final count of the wounded and dead, he knew, but that would have to wait. He needed to get out of this armour and wash the demon ichor from himself.

And eat something. The last meal he had eaten was supper the night before, and it was nearly supper again tonight. His stomach growling, he trudged down the path.

Had the way always been so long?   
The prisoner – no, Cullen corrected himself, the Herald – had slept for three days after she stopped the growth of the breach. For three days, Chancellor Roderick had been trying to convince Cullen, Josephine, Cassandra, and Leliana to put her back in chains.

Clearly, Cullen thought, the chancellor was an idiot. The woman the folk in Haven were calling the “Herald of Andraste” might not be holy, but Cullen felt that her divinity (or lack thereof) was less important than her ability to close rifts. 

Cullen was tallying the final count of soldiers lost in the battle when a runner arrived at his tent.

“Commander.” The runner saluted. “The Herald has awoken, and Cassandra has declared the Inquisition. She requests your presence in the Chantry.”

“Requests, or demands?” Cullen asked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile. The Seeker rarely framed anything as a request.

“Well, I, uh, she – “ the runner stammered out, clearly not sure how to reply.

“Not a serious question,” Cullen said, chuckling. “You can tell her I am on my way.”

The runner saluted again and fled out the tent. Shaking his head, Cullen neatly stacked the reports he was working on and tidied them away underneath his paperweight before ducking out the tent he was using as his field office.

A brief warm spell had melted the snow and turned the ground to mud, coating everything in an icy brown shell. The soldiers in the training ground looked like they were being taught lessons in mud wrestling, not swords and shields.

He called out advice to his recruits as he passed by on his way to the Chantry, doing his best to avoid being splashed with half-frozen mud. It would not do to be completely covered in mud when officially meeting the Herald.

He could hear the faint sounds of arguing coming from the front of the Chantry as he took the stairs leading up to it, and frowned. Was Chancellor Roderick stirring up trouble again?

Not the chancellor, Cullen saw as the front of the chantry came into view. A woman appeared to be arguing with the soldier guarding the door, waving one hand about and clutching a bundle underneath the opposite arm, her back to him.

Cullen studied her as he approached. She was small for a human; her golden hair was pulled back in a braid that fell to the small of her back, revealing rounded ears, or he might have mistaken her for an elf. Slight of frame, but well rounded, he thought approvingly, admiring the way her narrow waist flared into wide hips. 

Pity she was in a skirt, he thought.

He shook the thought (and the accompanying image) from his head.

“I am telling you, these are Lady Trevelyan’s clothes. Why won’t you even ask her?” The woman’s voice was laced with frustration. 

“What seems to be the trouble?” Cullen said before the guard could reply.

The woman spun around, and Cullen felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs.

Maker’s breath, she was beautiful. Large blue eyes fringed with surprisingly dark lashes dominated her face. High, round cheekbones framed her other features, a slightly crooked nose adding character, and soft pink lips topped with a perfect cupid’s bow. A stubborn chin and a jaw clenched with frustration finished the picture.

“Uh, beg pardon?” Cullen said, feeling foolish.

“I said, I am Lady Trevelyan’s companion. My name is Rosemary. I brought her clothes as soon as I heard she was awake, but these nugs,” at this, she gestured behind her at the guards on the door, “won’t even ask her.”

Cullen looked at the guards, who were staring straight ahead.

“Cassandra said no one was to go in except for you, Commander,” the one on the right said.

Ah. And they had taken that to mean not even themselves to relay messages. Cullen sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“My apologies, Lady Rosemary. If you follow me, you can wait in the entry and I will check with the Herald. You’ll forgive me, I hope, but one of these men will need to wait with you.”

Rosemary nodded stiffly. “I have heard the rumours. I understand. Thank you.”

Cullen held the door open for her to pass. She smelled faintly of lavender and lemon as she brushed past him; his nostrils flared as he inhaled. The top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder.

Cullen followed her into the chantry, the guard he had pointed at random of the two on the door taking up a position to the side.

Rosemary was turning to face him when she suddenly let out a yelp and fell over, dropping the bundle (which, as it turned out, was definitely a dress once unwound), causing Cullen to reach out reflexively, though he was not close enough to catch her.

*********

Rosemary did not know enough curse words to accurately capture the level of embarrassment she was feeling right now.

She had lost her balance on an uneven flagstone and fallen over, flat onto her now-bruised tailbone and after making a noise she could only qualify as a “squawk.” And to make matters even better, she had done it in front of the most handsome man she had seen in years, who was now standing a couple metres away with one arm outstretched and a startled expression on his face.

His expression was pretty funny, though, Rosemary thought, giggles bubbling up. His eyebrows had climbed halfway up his forehead, and his shapely lips had formed a perfect “o” shape.

Oh, Maker help her, now she couldn’t stop giggling. Her face still burned from the initial flush of embarrassment, but there was comedy in the situation.

The commander had closed the distance between them as she laughed, and Rosemary looked up to see him grinning down at her. The scar on his lip pulled made his smile crooked, enchantingly so. He bent down slightly and held out his hand to help her up. 

Rosemary felt her breath hitch slightly. The thought of touching him, even with his gloves on, was both terrifying and exciting. She hesitated a moment, her hand shaking slightly where it lay hidden beneath a fold of her skirt, but gathered her courage and reached out to clasp his hand.

He lifted her to her feet effortlessly; Rosemary felt weightless for a breathless moment.

“Thank you,” she said, and leaned down to gather the clothes she dropped as an excuse to hide the new flush of colour on her cheeks, hoping her breathy reply would be blamed on her previous fit of laughter. “The floor was uneven here.”

“Of course, my lady,” the commander replied, his voice warm with humour. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, thank you again. Please let Lady Evelyn know I am here,” Rosemary replied, offering a shallow curtsy.

Cullen bowed slightly in reply, and set off down the vestibule before entering a room at the end.

It was then that Rosemary remembered the guard was still there. She looked over to see him pointedly staring at the ceiling. Feeling childish, Rosemary furtively stuck her tongue out at him. He should have just asked for her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline is based on a forum post I found when I googled "distance between Haven and the Hinterlands," which is officially the nerdiest thing I have ever googled.

Rosemary bounced on her toes as she waited in the entrance. The chantry was quite dark, with only smoky torches providing a flickering light and a haze along the ceiling. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to worship, and Rosemary wondered at the type of people who built it. They were probably the type of worshipers who feared the Maker, and lived their lives under his shadow. 

Rosemary was not devout herself. The Maker existed, or he didn’t, and as Rosemary was not inclined to the sorts of activities he disapproved of, she didn’t concern herself with the Maker or Andraste beyond that.

Rosemary was peering at a hanging on the wall, trying to decipher the smoke-darkened design, when the door Cullen had recently disappeared through flew open and Evelyn came running out.

“Rosemary!” Evelyn cried out before catching her in a rare embrace.

Rosemary hugged her back, blinking back tears. Up until this moment, Rosemary had half been convinced she had only imagined that it was Evelyn she had seen.

“I tried to see you, but they wouldn’t let me –“

“Everything kept happening at once, I couldn’t – “

They both stopped as they realized they were speaking over each other. Evelyn pushed away, her hands on Rosemary’s shoulders.

“I am fine,” Evelyn said gently, seeing the tear slipping down Rosemary’s cheek. “And Andraste bless you, you brought me real clothing.”

Rosemary smiled tremulously, handing the bundled up dress to Evelyn. Rosemary swiped her cheek with the back of her hand, feeling like a heavy weight had lifted from her shoulders.

“I thought the worst, after,” Rosemary said. “But I don’t understand – how did you survive? Why is your hand green? What –“

Evelyn held up her hand, laughing. “We will talk about it later. Now, I need to change from these… clothes they provided me, and I am told I am joining the Inquisition. I will ask the people in charge to move our things to the house they stuck me in, and you with them.”

Evelyn hugged Rosemary again quickly with her free arm and strode back to the room at the end of the hall, leaving Rosemary gaping after her like a child at a mummer’s show.

“Inquisition?” Rosemary shouted after Evelyn, her mouth belatedly catching up to her mind.

Evelyn glanced back over her shoulder and shrugged before disappearing back into the room.

Rosemary wandered back to her room lost in thought, her mind turning over the few brief bits of information Evelyn had provided. Evelyn was confirmed alive now, after three days of worrying and attempting to get half a sentence out of the people in charge of guarding the people in charge. That was good news for Rosemary, mostly because she cared about the woman whose companion Rosemary had been for the past six years, but also, in a small, selfish part, because without Evelyn, Rosemary had nowhere to live, and no livelihood to rely on. Rosemary was not ready to go back to working in an inn or as a shop clerk; she had been spoiled these past six years by living a life similar to the manner she had grown up in, and the four years prior to that seemed far away.

But what would Rosemary’s position be in an Inquisition? Perhaps a better question to ask would be what was Evelyn’s? Presumably it was related to the glowing green hand issue. Rosemary had done well enough with history to know that the original Inquisition had been formed to protect the world from magic, and Maker knows that was appropriate considering the current situation between the mages and Templars, but the connection to the glowing green hand and the hole in the sky and the mages and Templars seemed to be a large, complicated knot made up of information Rosemary was not privy to.

Evelyn intended to keep Rosemary with her, to Rosemary’s relief, which meant they would be staying in Haven for the foreseeable future. Rosemary eyed the drab brown houses as she passed with a more critical eye than she had before; the place was small and the paths were currently frozen mud, but Evelyn had chosen worse places for the two of them to visit through the years. Under a fresh coat of snow, it might even be charming.

Staying would have some benefits. Rosemary blushed slightly, thinking of the Commander. Not that she was expecting anything there. No, the man who was no doubt currently being given charge of this inquisition’s army is not someone whose circle she would be spending any time in. But being in the same place meant she might be able to look at him, furtively, maybe even exchange polite greetings if they met on the road.

Rosemary laughed at herself. She was daydreaming about saying hello to a man on the road. It was the first time she had been interested in a man in years, and she wasn’t even allowing her fantasies to be interesting.

A light snow had begun to fall as Rosemary walked to the inn, the delicate flakes settling on her braided hair and slowly melting on her chilled face. Snow was a rarity in Kirkwall, and Rosemary still found a childish delight in it, raising her face to the sky and sticking out her tongue to taste the snow as it fell. The world sounded different when it snowed, every sound seeming more muffled. It was oddly isolating, which Rosemary supposed was part of the reason she enjoyed it; she could feel alone without having to be alone.

Rosemary reached the inn and stopped by to let the innkeeper know that she would be leaving before she took the stairs to the room she had been staying in the past few nights. She might not know anything about this Inquisition thing, or what was going to happen, but she could get their things settled.

And judging by the chill in the air and the thickening flakes of snow, she would also make sure their winter gear was easily accessed; winter was getting ready to settle in in earnest, a few months ahead of what Rosemary was used to. Winter came earlier on the mountains.

 

****************

Rosemary had watched the Inquisition be declared two days earlier. The commander had nailed the writ to the chantry doors himself, holding it firm against the wind with an armoured forearm. She wondered how many layers he wore underneath it to keep himself from feeling frozen. Metal soaked in the cold, after all, and covering yourself in it must make it harder to keep warm. Rosemary had only the vaguest idea of what was actually worn underneath armour, and previously had never cared, but now she felt a keen interest.

Her subconscious was getting braver, that was good. It had moved on from “road greetings” to “casual wear.” Maybe in a year she would find herself wondering what his hair felt like! She looked forward to it.

Currently, Evelyn was in a meeting with the leaders of the Inquisition. They had met at the crack of dawn, a messenger knocking on the door a candlemark earlier to wake Rosemary on her trundle bed in the main room, causing her to stumble to the door to Evelyn’s room in a half-awake stupor to wake her in turn.

Thank the Maker for tea.

And now Rosemary had spent the past two hours trying to concentrate on the mittens she was crocheting, but failing spectacularly. Rosemary sighed in frustration as she unraveled her round again; concentrating on stitches was difficult when you were busy wondering what was happening less than a kilometre away but not able to affect it.

Rosemary gave up on being productive, and marked her stitch. She lifted the ball of yarn and raveled the loose tail between it and her half-finished mitten, the wool soft between her fingers. She was tucking the materials into a basket when a blast of icy air announced Evelyn’s arrival through the front door.

“Well, I am leaving for the Hinterlands as soon as I am packed,” Evelyn announced without preamble, unwinding a scarf from her neck and hanging it on a peg beside the door.

“The Hinterlands?” Rosemary echoed, lifting the basket and placing it on a shelf beside the fire. “That’s where Redcliffe is, isn’t it? Isn’t there a big problem with rebel mages and Templars there? What are they expecting you to do? Disapprove of their antics until they behave?”

Evelyn hung the coat she had removed on the same peg as her scarf.

“My dear, we Trevelyans are trained in war as soon as we are old enough to hold a sword,” Evelyn said, amusement lacing her voice. “Had I not dreamed of getting married since I was a young girl, I would have most likely joined the Templars. Most of my family seems to end up in the Circle one way or another.”

Rosemary leaned against the hearth, trying to imagine the woman she had known for six years holding a sword. It was difficult. Lady Evelyn Trevelyan had a preference for fine things, silk dresses and painted fans, and she had reached an age where “dowager” would not have been an out-of-place description. A sword did not fit that image.

“But… I have never seen you even hold a sword,” Rosemary said, confused. “Don’t you have to practice? Aren’t they heavy?”

“I am quite rusty, to be sure. At the Temple, I felt certain my arms were going to fall off before we made it to the breach. But I have been practicing these past few days since I woke, and Cassandra will be coming along. She makes wild boars look tame.”

“You are betting your life on Cassandra being able to make up for you not being able to swing a sword for very long?”

“I am not so old and tired that I can’t wield a sword, Rosemary,” Evelyn said, arching an eyebrow at Rosemary.

“I didn’t mean – I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Rosemary said, flushing.

Evelyn reached out and patted Rosemary on the shoulder comfortingly.

“I know, my dear. I will be fine. I will be gone three months, they think.”

“Three months?” Rosemary asked, concern lacing her voice. “What can I do for three months if you’re gone?”

“I have asked if they have anything that you can help with, and Josephine says she will be delighted to have someone versed in nobility to help her with letters.”

“I can do that,” Rosemary said. “I was never very skilled in the Game, but my penmanship is excellent.”

“Don’t underestimate your abilities, my dear. I have seen you deal with the nobles in Ostwick, and I am sure you will do fine here.”

“Minor nobility you could afford for me to offend, and in a Free Marcher city. Orlais is on a different level. But I will do what I can, as long as you promise to stay safe.

“I will do my best,” replied Evelyn, heading to her room. “But for now, I must pack and head for the armory. I will need to find something more suited to the Hinterlands than my dresses.”

Rosemary followed, leaning against the door frame and watching Evelyn pull out a bag and beginning removing leather breeches and linen shirts from her drawers, setting aside one of each and beginning to stuff the rest into the sack.

“The Inquisition has no horses,” Rosemary pointed out. “Are you walking from Haven to the Hinterlands?”

“Yes,” Evelyn grumbled, changing quickly from the dress she was wearing into the shirt and breeches she had set aside. “But they believe there is a man there I can speak to about providing us with horses, which should make the trip back easier.”

“So maybe pack fewer things now, and pick up the necessities in Redcliffe,” Rosemary suggested, looking pointedly at Evelyn’s bulging pack. “Even with the war, you should be able to buy more shirts.”

Rosemary watched as Evelyn sighed and began removing some of the items she had packed. Three months, Evelyn had said. Rosemary estimated the distance in her head – one month to get to the Hinterlands by foot, she guessed. Maybe half that to come back, if they got the horses. This left a month and a half.

“What is it they are hoping you will accomplish there?” Rosemary asked.

Evelyn hoisted her now much lighter pack over her shoulder, and replied, “I’m supposed to meet some chantry mother named Mother Giselle there, and help out where I can. Get the name of the Inquisition out there, get people talking about me.”

“Ah,” Rosemary said. “Gaining influence for the Inquisition.”

“And closing rifts,” Evelyn added.

“Closing rifts?” Rosemary exclaimed. “How? Did that elven mage figure out a spell?”

“Didn’t I say?” Evelyn said, looking startled. “This glowing green hand thing” – here she waved her left hand, the glow leaving a faint trail behind it – “can close rifts. That’s why they need me.”

Rosemary gaped at Evelyn, completely nonplussed.

“You’ve been awake for four days and you didn’t mention this once. How does something as important as ‘I am capable of closing demon-spawning holes in the fabric of the veil’ not come up?”

“I assumed you had heard,” Evelyn said. “Why did you think everyone was calling me the Herald?”

Rosemary opened her mouth to answer, but closed it, thinking. What had she thought? If she was being honest with herself, she hadn’t thought much about it at all.

Evelyn had moved to stand before the front door and was looking at Rosemary, one eyebrow raised.

“I think I had assumed it was because you survived the explosion at the Temple,” Rosemary said. “I think I was just so happy you were alive that I didn’t think about it beyond that.”

“Always so concerned with the practical side of things but forgetting to ask why we do them,” Evelyn said fondly as she swung her coat back on and began to re-fasten it.

Evelyn moved to embrace Rosemary.

“I should go now – Cassandra is waiting for me by the armory, and Solas and Varric should be arriving there soon, too,” Evelyn said, squeezing Rosemary tightly before releasing her and placing a hand on the doorknob. “Josephine was hoping you could begin helping her today, but she said tomorrow would be fine if you were busy. I will see you when I get back.”

“Stay safe,” Rosemary said again, her voice trembling a little.

Evelyn smiled at Rosemary before opening the door and exiting into the swirling flurries of snow outside, the door thudding closed with finality.

Three months before Evelyn would be back. Rosemary looked around the small house; her neatly made-up bed lay in the furthest corner, opposite the small kitchen. Everything was tidied away and there was still hours of day left to fill.

Shrugging, Rosemary reached out and swung her own cloak overtop her dress. If Josephine would like her to start today, then Rosemary would start being useful today.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know yoooooou.

Evelyn had been gone for two months.

In those two months, Cullen’s soldiers had been increasing in skill, and new recruits were a steady trickle in. They mostly consisted of Fereldans from the Hinterlands who had been inspired by the Herald’s good deeds. Winter had also begun in earnest in Haven, winter early and strong in the mountains. The town was covered in a white blanket, and the training area required clearing every morning.

The tent that had been set up as Cullen’s office was chilled, a small, glowing brazier not enough to do more than take the edge off the biting chill of the frosty air. He took little notice of it, himself; the cold was a welcome distraction from the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal, giving him something else to concentrate on.

He was bent over some requisitions the Herald had recently filled when a messenger arrived, informing Cullen that Leliana had received a letter from the Herald and requested his presence in the war room.

Cullen set down his pen, and said, “Thank you. Let them know I will be right there.”

The messenger saluted and ducked out the tent, leaving Cullen to stack his papers into a tidy pile and tuck them under a bronze paperweight shaped like a mabari. He had found it in a shop in Kirkwall, hidden among tacky trinkets, and had bought it on impulse because it reminded him of home.

Straightening the paperweight with a last caress on its cold nose, Cullen rose and ducked out the tent. The snow was falling heavily, thick flakes that were gathering quickly on the ground in soft piles. The wind was picking up, pushing the previous days’ snow into drifts piled against the tents. He could see the training soldiers leaving the training grounds, meaning his second-in-command had also take note of the weather and sent the trainees to weather the storm out in relative warmth.

Confident that his soldiers had been taken care of, Cullen headed off to the Chantry, wading through increasingly high snow. He would need to hurry to beat what was rapidly shaping up to the first blizzard of the season. Had he not just sent the messenger ahead, he wouldn’t even risk the trip, but Leliana and Josephine would worry if he didn’t make it there, and, he could admit to himself, he was hoping to see Rosemary there. He hadn’t done more than exchange the occasional greeting when he encountered her in the chantry while leaving or entering the war room, but her distracted greetings and polite smiles caused a welcome heat to bloom in his chest, though he knew the feelings could not be mutual.

He reached the chantry as the world turned into a white canvas, the path he left in the snow along the patch of woods beside the chantry filled in almost immediately, his hand barely visible when held up in front of his face. He fell into the Chantry along with a large amount of snow, pushing the door closed against the wind before stomping his feel to get the worst of the snow off his boots, leaning down to brush what was clinging to his pants off.

“Is it bad?” said a voice from further in the Chantry.

Cullen looked up to see Rosemary clutching a book to her chest and looking at him, her blue eyes wide with worry.

“Ah… yes,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck with his right arm. “Honestly, it was foolish of me to come here in it.”

Rosemary pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and frowned at the door behind him; his eyes focused on her mouth as her small, white teeth released her lip and he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d taste if it were his teeth pulling on it.

“I have soup cooking on my stove,” Rosemary said, frustration in her voice. She shifted her gaze from the door to Cullen’s face, and he quickly jerked his attention from her mouth to meet her eyes, hoping she hadn’t noticed where he’d been staring. “I don’t live far, just down the path. Do you think I could make it?”

Cullen thought for a minute, considering the weight of the flurries outside. The Herald’s house was at the edge of where the village proper began, not quite a kilometre away. If she stuck to the path, she could make it, but the path was no longer visible and Cullen knew it would be risky heading out in a blizzard this heavy even for so short a distance.

“If you left now, you might be able to make it before the snow was too high, but I couldn’t let you go out there alone. It is too easy to miss the path and end up wandering in circles.”

“Then can you come with me? Please? It will burn if I don’t take it off the fire – I filled the stove earlier. It will take forever to get the smell of smoke out of the house without being able to air it out,” Rosemary said, looking at him pleadingly.

Cullen wavered. They should really stay put in the Chantry, but when she was looking at him with those big blue eyes, he found himself having trouble saying no. He sighed heavily.

“All right. I will go and tell Leliana and Josephine quickly. Get your cloak,” he said.

It was a bad idea, but the thought of spending more time with Rosemary was too enticing. Rosemary nodded, her face lighting up, and she disappeared into Josephine’s office as he headed to the war room.

Leliana and Josephine looked up from a letter as he entered.

“Cullen!” Leliana exclaimed. “We didn’t think you would come once we saw the snow.”

“I had sent the messenger ahead, and I didn’t want to worry you by not showing up. But, ah, I am going to escort Lady Rosemary back to her house. She is worried about some food she had on the stove.”

“No,” said Josephine, “not in this weather! That is foolish. Tell her she must stay.”

“She was quite insistent. I think she would go on her own if I refused. At least if I am with her, I can get through the snow banks easier. And it isn’t far,” Cullen said.

“Mmph,” Josephine made a sound that would have been a snort from a less refined woman. “She is stubborn. She probably would go alone. Very well. If she insists, you must go with her.”

Leliana looked at Cullen, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, you simply must.”

Cullen flushed slightly under Leliana’s gaze. Leliana had a habit of teasing, one which he had still not quite become accustomed to. It was like having an older sister around; he suspected Mia and Leliana would get along too well for his comfort. 

“I must leave if we are going at all. We will speak on this letter when I get back,” he said, inclining his head towards the two women.

“There is nothing in the letter to speak on that can’t wait,” Josephine said, waving him away with one hand and picking up her board with the other.

Cullen turned and walked back into the entrance hall, where Rosemary waited by the doors. She’d found her coat, a ridiculously oversized white thing lined with fur. She looked like an overstuffed pillow, her face barely visible through the hood snugged around her head.

She saw him looking at her and said defensively, “It’s warm!”

Cullen raised both hands in surrender. He had two sisters; he knew better than to comment on a woman’s sartorial choices.

“Let’s go, quickly, then,” he said, pulling the doors open and allowing a new wave of fresh snow in atop the melting slush from before.

He looked out at the snow apprehensively. Even in such a short time, the height of the snowfall on the ground had risen drastically. He wasn’t sure he would be able to make it back to the Chantry if it continued to fall at the current pace.

He was still hesitating in the door when Rosemary plunged past him into it, the snow waist-high on her, her arms churning as if she were attempting to swim through it.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen cursed, moving into the path she had made and pulling the doors to the chantry shut behind him, forcing it against the snow piled in the doorway. 

“I love snow,” Rosemary called out from ahead of him, too far to see through the blizzard, especially in the white cloak she was wearing.

“This isn’t snow, this is a blizzard. Slow down and wait for me,” Cullen ground out, wading through the snow.

He reached her a couple of metres ahead, her arms held contritely behind her back.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just down the path, which is, um, this way?”

She pointed to the right. Cullen shook his head and reached out to take her arm. She was wearing so many layers that it was like grabbing a marshmallow.

“It’s a good thing I came with you. The path is this way,” Cullen said, tugging her gently to the left. He could see her face pale as she realized how easy it would have been to get lost even in such a small area when the snow was falling this heavily.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, following him down the path.

The walk to the Herald’s house was quiet; the only sound the shushing sound of the wind blowing over the snow as it fell. They walked as quickly as possible through the snow, but it was already halfway to Rosemary’s chest by the time they reached the house, requiring Cullen to push ahead to make a path for her to walk through. The wind had pushed drifts of snow as tall as the house against the windward side.

Cullen pushed the door open and almost fell forward with the combined weight of snow and Rosemary pushing in behind him.

“Careful,” he said too late, as Rosemary was already rubbing her cheek where her face had collided with his back, the armour leaving a red mark.

“It’s fine,” she said, leaning against the door to close it.

Cullen pushed against the door, the snow making it difficult, but together they managed to get it to close with a thud.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to get back to the Chantry for a while,” Rosemary pronounced, looking at the pile of snow that had entered the cottage with them.

“It appears unlikely,” Cullen agreed ruefully.

“Luckily, I was making enough soup for a few days,” Rosemary said, undoing the buttons on her coat and hanging it on a peg beside the fireplace. “You won’t go hungry, at least. Can I take your surcoat? It will dry quicker by the fire.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said, shrugging his surcoat off and handing it to Rosemary, who hung it on the second peg and bend over the fireplace, adding a log and blowing on the coals until it caught fire.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” Rosemary said, gesturing towards a couch and an easy chair that sat clustered around the fire.

Cullen picked up the oversized pillow that took up the entirety of the seat and took its place in the easy chair, as Rosemary walked over to the small kitchen opposite the sitting area and moved a large pot off the stove. He wasn’t sure what he should do with the pillow, eventually settling on placing it across his lap and leaning his arms on it.

Cullen shifted awkwardly, watching as Rosemary bent and placed a bread pan into the oven. He skirt pulled tight across her round bottom, defining the plump curves, and he looked away at the décor to distract himself from the sight.

The house was laid out in the same basic template as most of those in Haven. The main room took up most of the house, with a door leading to what he assumed was the Herald’s bedroom in the middle. On one side, another door in the kitchen led to what was probably a pantry, and to the other side was one that most likely led to the water closet. The front door was off-centre, a large fireplace taking up most of the remaining space on the front wall.

Little touches made the place more personal. Too many cushions for Cullen’s taste were scattered across the couch that sat opposite the fireplace, a knit blanket draped across its back. A large oil lamp and a small pile of books (including one of Varric’s serials and a novel with “Avvar” in the title) sat on a small table in the corner where the couch and the easy chair made an L shape in front of the fireplace. A small bed, neatly made up, was tucked into the corner behind the easy chair, a large pile of blankets folded at the bottom. A shelving unit to the side of the bedroom door contained various knick-knacks: a vase of dried embrium, a basket of yarn, and more books neatly stacked by size.

“The bread won’t take too long to bake,” Rosemary announced, moving to stand by the door to the bedroom. “Is it all right if I leave you for a minute to change? My skirt got a little wet in the snow, and it’s cold.”

“Of course,” Cullen said.

Rosemary slipped into the bedroom, the door closing with a click of the latch behind her. Cullen picked up the book on top of the pile next to him to distract himself from the image of her undressing so close, knowing that if he thought on that for too long he would end up needing the pillow he held across his lap.

“The Barbarian who Loved Me: An Avvar love story,” Cullen read, the florid font curling across the embossed cover of the book, a stylized lion’s head centred beneath the title. Curious, he flipped the book open at random and skimmed the page.

“… Anyastasia gasped in outrage as the barbarian hoisted her over his saddle, face down across the gleaming leather, and swung up after her, his large, rough hand boldly settling on her rump to hold her in place. His rippling abdomen pressed against her arm, and her face was inches from his bare, muscled thigh as it peeked from his loincloth.

Her violet eyes flashed with indignation as she tossed her fiery red mane of hair. “You beast! When my father finds out… !”

“I look forward to it,” the savage snarled, his war paint not enough to hide his chiseled jaw and sensual lips. “He will pay for what he did with his daughter!”

A limpid heat pooled in Anyastasia’s loins as the barbarian’s hand caressed her behind as he nudged his painted warhorse into a gallop. Her bosom heaved with emotion …”

The prose was as florid as the cover font, but Cullen found it oddly fascinating. What had Anyastasia’s father done? How many ways could this author describe muscles without using the word “muscled” every sentence? He flipped the book open halfway.

“Mikhail’s silverite eyes met hers as his stubble rasped against her inner thigh, his satin lips a contrast to the abrasion of the day’s whiskers along his cheeks.

“I’m going to make you beg for it,” he growled, kissing his way down to her most secret place.

Anyastasia arched into –“

The handle on the door turned with a click and Cullen stuffed the book down beside his thigh, his face burning. Maker’s breath, he’d managed to find exactly the most awkward passage to read in company.

Rosemary entered the room, her new skirt in a tartan pattern and a thick shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Cullen cleared his throat as she went over to the stove and opened the oven to peek inside, the yeasty scent of baking bread wafting out to fill the room.

“Are you, uh… from Starkhaven, then?” he asked.

“No, Kirkwall,” Rosemary answered, glancing down at her skirt. “I did buy this fabric in Starkhaven, though, when Evelyn and I traveled there. I like the pattern.”

“You’re from Kirkwall?”

Cullen studied her face as she walked over and took a seat on the couch, moving pillows out of her way and curling her feet underneath her. She was definitely nobly raised; the way she carried herself and her accent spoke of a cultured upbringing. But Cullen had spent rubbing shoulders at the outskirts of Kirkwall’s elite as a high-ranking member of the Templars, and he was certain he had never seen her before. Kirkwall society was so insular that he had met (unfortunately) most of the noble families in the city.

“Yes, I… I left when I was eighteen,” she said, “and I haven’t been back since.”

“How long ago was that?” Cullen asked.

Rosemary glanced at him with a wry smile, one corner of her mouth lifting higher than the other, and said, “Now, Commander, don’t you know better than you ask a woman her age?”

“I just mean… I only recently left Kirkwall myself. I was wondering if maybe we had met before.”

“I thought you were Fereldan? But no, I am sure I would have remembered meeting you.”

“I served in Ferelden before the blight, and I grew up there. But I was in Kirkwall until Cassandra asked me to join the Inquisition.”

“I see,” said Rosemary.

As she seemed to be uncomfortable speaking of where she came from, her body leaning away slightly, Cullen dropped the subject. They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, Rosemary idly picking bits off lint off the pillow beside her.

“Did you want to take your armour off?” Rosemary asked, abruptly breaking the silence. “It can’t be comfortable, and it looks like you will be stuck here at least for tonight.”

Cullen paused a moment, thinking about the book hidden beside his thigh. “Ah, yes, that would probably make sense.” He hesitated. Having hidden the book, it would be more embarrassing to reveal it now than it would have been to have been caught reading it.

“You can use Evelyn’s room, if you want privacy to take it off,” Rosemary offered, mistaking his hesitation.

“Uh, yes, of course, I’ll… I’ll just go in there, then,” Cullen stammered. As he stood, he shifted the pillow he’d been holding to angle over the arm, effectively hiding the book. “I will be just a moment, then.”

With that, he went into the other room to remove his armour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I post when no one reads, but here we are!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter because I just wanted to get something out there and this one was really not working for me, sorry! I also got distracted with too many other things, but I know where I am going from here and hopefully it'll go better than this darn chapter did.
> 
> Not edited, so if you notice any terrible errors please let me know and I will fix them!

As the door shut behind Cullen, Rosemary rose and went over to the oven. She tipped open the oven door to see it was perfectly golden on top – done, then. Grabbing a dishtowel, she pulled the loaf out and set it off to the side to cool for a while before she set about placing two table settings on the small breakfast table set up in the kitchen area.

She hadn’t realized how foolish going out in the storm was. The Free Marches rarely had heavy snowfall, and Evelyn had always preferred traveling to warmer climates rather than colder ones – the summit had been an anomaly, the result of Evelyn’s burning need to know what was happening before it happened. When the Commander had shown Rosemary how turned around she had managed to get and so quickly, she had realized that snow was more than something to make snowballs and tin y snowmen with, which had been her entire experience with snow prior to Haven.

Rosemary couldn’t quite understand why the Commander had gone along with it if he knew how bad blizzards could be. Maybe he had once experienced the truly awful, lingering stench of burnt food that would not go away? Regardless of the reason, Rosemary was glad he had agreed, she thought as she rummaged through a drawer for some spoons.

The clattering of dishes must have hidden the sound of the door between rooms opening, because when she turned around Cullen was standing by the table. And she was able to find out what he wore under his armour.

Turns out it was not all that interesting; he wore a similar outfit beneath his armour as most of the workmen in Haven wore without armour, which was a leather jerkin overtop a linen shirt.

“I left my armour by the wall, hopefully it won’t be in the way,” Cullen said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, and Rosemary realized that maybe his outfit was more interesting than she thought when the leather pulled tight against his torso. “Can I help with anything?”

“No, it’s all done,” Rosemary said, mentally shaking her head and setting out the cutlery. She gestured at the table. “Have a seat.”

She turned and moved the soup and the bread to the centre of the table as he took a seat at the small breakfast table, taking the seat across from him. “Would you prefer to serve yourself, or…?” she asked, her hand hovering over the ladle.

“Yes, of course,” he said, taking the ladle and scooping it into his bowl. “It smells delicious.” 

“I spent some time working at an inn when I was younger. Not in the kitchen,” Rosemary clarified, serving herself and smiling wryly down at her food, “the innkeep’s wife ran that ship with an iron fist, but she would let me watch and take notes.” Rosemary took a slice of bread and looked at it wistfully. “She made the best raspberry jelly. I haven’t been able to find anything that compares.”

“Based on this, you took good notes,” Cullen said, reaching for another slice of bread. “What was it that you did at the inn?”

“I kept the books, mostly. Kept track of which rooms were occupied. Took payments. Things like that. The innkeep had no head for numbers, and he much preferred serving the food and entertaining his guests,” Rosemary said, fondness in her voice. “They were very kind.”

“When did you meet the Herald?” Cullen asked, gesturing questioningly at the soup. Rosemary waved her hand with permission, and Cullen proceeded to fill his bowl again.

“I met Evelyn there, at the inn. She had heard of the cook’s roast while in Denerim and decided she had to have it. Evelyn has a weakness for a good roast,” Rosemary confided. “She told me of her previous companion having met and married a newly knighted king’s guard in a whirlwind romance, and I volunteered to replace her. I had been training the innkeep’s daughter in the books, and she was old enough to take over and had a much better head for numbers than her father, so I knew they would continue to prosper without me.”

“She took you on just like that?”

“Once she learned my name, she decided that it was fate. It turns out Rosemary is her favourite herb,” Rosemary smiled. “Mine, too, as it happens. My parents chose well when they named me, though their friends thought it was an odd choice.”

“As it happens, we also have that in common,” Cullen said. “Which is, I suppose, why I am enjoying this soup so much.”

“Oh, yes,” Rosemary said. “I keep a large stash of it in the pantry. Squirrels hoard nuts for the winter, and I hoard herbs.”

“I seem to mostly be hoarding reports these days,” Cullen said with a half smile. “I feel like every report I sign off on, two more appear on my desk.”

Rosemary laughed. “I know the feeling. Josie’s desk looks like a library. I don’t know how she keeps track of everything.”

“That woman is a wonder. I have met few people as driven as she is. I am half convinced she will singlehandedly bring the Inquisition to power through her connections and sheer will power alone.”

Admiration warmed Cullen’s voice. Making an affirmative noise, Rosemary stifled a sudden flare of jealousy and looked down and stirred her soup. She had no right to jealousy, she knew. She barely knew him. If he was interested in Josephine, it was no business of Rosemary’s. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from shredding her slice of bread as an image of Josephine and Cullen laughing together flashed into Rosemary’s head. They made a handsome couple, she had to admit. Their colouring was complimentary, his light against her dark.

They finished their meal in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only sound. The quiet was surprisingly comfortable; Cullen didn’t appear to feel the need to fill the void with idle chatter, for which Rosemary was grateful. Even after years of practice while on the road with Evelyn, if the choice was between quiet and small talk, she would choose the quiet anytime.

Rosemary was pleasantly surprised when Cullen rose and helped clear the dishes; he stacked them neatly beside the sink before shaving some slices of soap and pouring hot water over the soap as Rosemary carried the soup into the chilly larder and wiped down the table. Cleaning up with four hands went quicker than with one, and they finished cleaning in a few short minutes.

Once everything was tidied away, dishes on the shelves and surfaces wiped clean, Rosemary lit the lamp on the table beside the couch and chair.

“Would you like something to read?” she asked, gesturing towards the bookshelf. “I’m not sure what you usually spend your evenings doing, but there should be an interesting selection there. Evelyn’s tastes and mine don’t really match when it comes to reading material, so we tend to have treatises on the many uses of elfroot alongside Varric Tethras’s latest serial.” She flashed a quick, crooked smile. “I’ll let you guess which of us prefers which.”

As Cullen moved to peer over the bookshelf, Rosemary reached down and pulled the basket with her current crochet project from under the small table. At some point she had decided that crocheting an entire blanket was a good idea; if nothing else, it helped keep her hands busy.

She looked up from counting stitches as Cullen settled into the easy chair. “’Adventures of the Black Fox’,” he said, holding the book up. “It was a favourite of my older sister, but I never had the chance to read it myself.”

“It was one of my favourites, too,” Rosemary confessed. “I think most young girls are fascinated with the noble scoundrel. Of course, the scoundrels are rarely noble in reality.”

Rosemary trailed off, flushing slightly. She moved back to concentrating on her stitches. She hoped he hadn’t heard the bitterness in her voice.

“I’m sure it will be exciting,” Cullen said, flipping the book open to the first page.

They spent the next couple of hours in a comfortable silence as the light outside died, the howling wind and blowing snow making the inside of the cottage feel cozy and isolated, though other buildings were nearby.

Rosemary marked her stitch and replaced her work back in the basket after she noticed Cullen’s second stifled yawn in five minutes. “I will make up the couch for you. I hope you don’t mind sharing the room? I should have thought to light the fire in Evelyn’s room. It will be too cold in there for anyone to sleep once the fire is banked in here.”

“I lived in barracks for years,” Cullen said, smiling. “I could sleep even if you snored as loudly as a nug. Not that I’m saying you snore, I just meant, well, if you did it would be fine and…” He coughed. “I mean, I don’t mind.”

He was blushing! Rosemary paused as she lifted some linens and blankets from the closet, arrested by the sight. He was adorable.

“I don’t think I snore, but if I do, please feel free to toss me into the snow bank,” she replied as she tucked the sheets onto the couch and laid the blankets across it. “I fear that will be the only thing that would stop my face from burning up from embarrassment.”

Cullen laughed. “I would never. If you snore, my lady, the secret shall be mine to keep.”

She smiled up at him. “It’s a deal. Could you…” she hesitated a moment, her cheeks feeling slightly hot. “Could you bank the fire while I change into my nightgown?”

He seemed taken aback. Oh, Maker, somehow talking of changing into a nightgown was so much more embarrassing than changing into dry day clothes.

“Of course,” he replied, and bent over the fireplace.

Rosemary gathered her thick flannel nightgown and changed quickly in Evelyn’s room, her thoughts whirring in her head.

She was going to sleep in the same room as a man.

Okay, so Evelyn’s adventuring meant that Rosemary had spent many nights in the same room as men before, but Evelyn at the very least had always been there.

She was going to sleep in the same room as a man, alone, this man, a man who made her heart beat faster and her stomach fill with butterflies. Her family would be scandalized.

“Again,” Rosemary thought wryly.

She liked him, she realized. He had a dry sense of humour and a quick wit and he didn’t even offer to help, he just started helping as if it was a given. “He’s pretty much perfect,” she mumbled to herself as she made sure all the buttons were done up.

She walked out the room to see Cullen with his back to her, leather jerkin covering his head as he pulled it off in preparation for sleeping. The linen shirt underneath had caught onto the jerkin, pulling up to reveal the entire bare expanse of his back, muscles rippling as he tugged the article of clothing off before settling the linen shirt back over his body.

“Oh,” Rosemary gasped quietly. “I’m sorry! I…”

Cullen spun around quickly, a red flush creeping up his neck to cover his face. “I, uh, sorry, I didn’t think you’d be back so quickly.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand.

“It’s, um, it’s all right,” Rosemary stammered, striding over to her little bed and crawling under the covers, to hopefully disappear forever. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Ah… good,” Cullen said. “I’ll just… I’ll just blow out the lamp, then.”

As the room went dark, Rosemary pulled her covers over her head. She closed her eyes, remembering the way Cullen’s shoulders had moved as he pulled his shirt off.

“To the void with me,” she thought, turning onto her side to try to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't figure out the best way to do section breaks when paragraph breaks are spaces. A bunch of *s it is!

The banked fire was little more than embers when Rosemary was woken by a strange sound. She lifted her head slightly, her body tense, trying to find the source of the noise. Too much snow could make roofs collapse, couldn’t it?

Rosemary relaxed as a low moan came from the couch. Cullen must talk in his sleep. She snuggled back into her pillow, pulling her blankets up to tuck under her chin. Her sister used to talk in her sleep; usually it was only one or two sentences before she settled back into sleep.

“Using my shame against me!” Cullen moaned, his head thrashing. “Begone!”

Rosemary sat up as Cullen continued to mumble and twitch, his tone distressed. This didn’t sound like a regular dream, but a nightmare. And it sounded truly awful. Rosemary was hesitant to wake him, though. Wasn’t it considered bad to wake someone when they were in the middle of a dream? She chewed her lip, wincing as Cullen drew a shuddering breath. She stood and padded lightly over to stand beside the couch where he lay, trying to make up her mind.

At some point in the night, he had thrown off the blanket. The sheet had been pushed down to his waist by his thrashing, his collarbone and the upper curves of the muscles on his chest exposed by the open neck of his shirt, the glow of the banked coals casting soft shadows and shading his skin a burnished gold.

She made her decision when his mumbling blended into harsh, wracking sobs that shook his entire body. He was suffering, and she couldn’t bear it and do nothing. Bending over him, she reached out, her hand briefly hovering over his shoulder before she gathered her courage and lightly grasped his shoulder.

“Commander, you’re having a nightmare,” she said softly, giving his shoulder a slight shake.

Quick as lightning, his arm snaked up and grabbed her, pulling her down across his body as his other reached for a blade that wasn’t there. She let out a small shriek as she fell forward, his strength pulling her over. Her knees bumped into the floor as she fell, one arm held above her head and the other braced against his shoulder, her face pressed against the hard planes of his chest.

Cullen woke with a gasp, his eyes darting around the room for danger before his newly woken mind realized who he held across his chest.

“Maker, I…” he stammered, releasing her arm and raising his hand in a gesture of surrender. “I am so sorry. Forgive me.”

She could feel his heart racing beneath her cheek, the cloth of his shirt slightly damp with the sweat of his night terrors. Held this close against him, she was surrounded by his scent – a rich, earthy smell that reminded her of a summer forest. She should push away, she knew. This was too close.

Masking her reluctance, Rosemary pushed herself off, crouching back on her heels. Her pulse beat hard in her chest, adrenaline pumping from both the speed at which he had her incapacitated and the lingering warmth of his body against her own.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. His sweat-dampened hair was curling over his forehead, the careful arrangement of the previous day mussed from his movements. Her hand itched to tuck a particularly errant lock that had fallen over one of his eyes. She clenched her hand in an effort to resist that urge, slight trembles running through her fist as the adrenaline wore off. “You were having a nightmare, and… and it seemed pretty bad.”

Rosemary watched Cullen closed his eyes and sighed, lifting a hand to push back the hair tumbling over his face that had so tempted her. “I apologize again. I didn’t expect…” He trailed off. “Did I hurt you?” He said suddenly, sitting up and leaning towards her.

“Oh, no! No, I’m fine,” Rosemary reassured him. He might not be so concerned if he knew her heart wasn’t racing solely from fear, she thought, slightly ashamed that his strength was exciting. 

“Good. That’s good,” he said, flopping back onto the couch, letting out a deep sigh and covering his face with his hands.

A brief, awkward pause rose between them. “I’ll just, um, go back to bed then. If you’re sure you’re fine,” Rosemary said, breaking the silence.

“Ah. Yes. Okay. Good night,” Cullen replied. “And… thank you. For your concern.”

“Of course,” Rosemary said as she rose and walked back to her bed. “Good night.”

Back under her covers, she lay as still as possible, listening as Cullen shifted around for a moment before settling, his breathing settling quickly into the even patterns of sleep. It must be the soldier training, she thought, to be able to fall asleep so quickly.

Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to fall back asleep. But she couldn’t stop replaying it in her mind. What would have happened if she’d… tilted her face and pressed her mouth to the skin exposed by the open collar of his shirt? Or stroked the hand that had been bracing her against his shoulder down across his chest? Or…

Maker, enough. Rosemary took a deep breath and pictured a ballroom full of people dancing a waltz. When she was a child, she would sneak from her room after bed to one of the balconies above the ballroom and watch the people dance until she fell asleep, fascinated by the colours and glamour of it all. Now it worked for her like everyone said counting sheep worked for them. One, two, three, she counted, one two three… One. Two… Three…

********

Rosemary awoke to the sound of wood being stacked in the fireplace. The room was still dark, but a hint of light was seeping through the windows, a slight glow reflecting from the snow piled high against them. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stifling a yawn.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Cullen said from where he crouched in front of the fire, coaxing the wood into life. Rosemary stifled a pang of disappointment when she saw he had donned his jerkin and surcoat, his linen shirt laced to his throat.

“It’s fine,” Rosemary replied, swinging her legs onto the floor and groping with her toes for the slippers she kept tucked underneath her bed and pulling a flannel robe over her nightgown. The warmth from last night had been chased by the outside snow bracketing the house, and she knew she wouldn’t feel her toes if she tried walking on the floor without her slippers. “How is it looking outside?”

“The snow appears to have slowed down,” Cullen said, standing and lighting the lamp on the mantle, keeping his gaze turned away from her and adjusting the globe of the lamp. “Once it’s lighter out, I’ll know whether I can head back to the Chantry.”

“Breakfast, then?” Rosemary offered, padding into the kitchen area and checking the water level inside the kettle. “I have eggs and bread, and tea and coffee if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to be a bother –“ Cullen began, moving to stand beside the dining room table. He seemed to be avoiding meeting her eyes, Rosemary thought, confused and slightly hurt. He had been so open last night at dinner. Was he angry that she had woken him? Had she overstepped? Her face grew hot as she remembered how she had hesitated before moving off him. Maker, had he noticed? He must be appalled.

“It’s no bother,” Rosemary said awkwardly. “I like feeding people.”

“If you’re sure, then I would love some breakfast,” Cullen said. “Can I help you with anything?”

“No, I’ve got it. Please sit. How do you like your eggs? And would you like any coffee or tea?” She asked, checking the coals inside the stove, raking them into embers and adding some kindling until they caught fire before adding some wood.

She glanced over to see him looking hesitant. “I… tend to have a large breakfast,” he said, his eyes flickering around her kitchen, looking at everything but her.

“I’ve helped the Inquisition’s quartermaster with her books,” she said dryly, standing and dusting off her hands. “You can tell me if you’re responsible for a large part of that budget. Considering how often you seem to train, you need it.”

At that, he appeared to relax slightly, finally pulling out a chair and sitting. “All right, then. Scrambled is fine, and tea would be lovely.”

He still wasn’t looking directly at her, but at least he no longer looked like a broom handle was stuck up his behind. Rosemary busied herself preparing breakfast, unwilling to push him.

She snuck glances at him as she prepared the eggs. He had pulled out the book he’d been reading the night before and had it open to a page. She realized she hadn’t seen him flip the page the entire time she’d been working on the food.

Maybe he wasn’t offended by her behaviour last night. Maybe he was embarrassed because she had seen him in a vulnerable state. Maybe he wasn’t sure what to say to her after. She had almost convinced herself of this by the time she set a plate piled high with food in front of Cullen and sat down with her large mug of hot, sweet tea opposite him, the teapot steaming on the table between them.

“You’re not eating,” Cullen said questioningly, his hand hovering over his fork.

“I can’t eat in the mornings; I get an upset stomach and can’t eat for the rest of the day,” Rosemary replied, sipping her hot tea gingerly. “It’s a shame, because breakfast foods are my favourite foods.”

“If you’re sure,” Cullen said, lifting his fork and digging in.

Rosemary wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. The fire hadn’t quite warmed the room yet; the icy chill from outside still lingered.

She watched Cullen surreptitiously as he ate. She had been taught, growing up, that Fereldan lacked basic table manners. Her travels with Evelyn hadn’t done much to assuage that, but that was probably the result of Evelyn choosing the more questionable establishments to stay in rather than a condemnation of the countrymen as a whole. Cullen’s manners, however, were impeccable. Not even an Orlesian matriarch could take offense at how he ate; he grasped his cutlery firmly, yet gracefully, each portion small enough that his cheeks would not bulge, yet large enough that he wouldn’t linger too long over each course. His fork stayed in his left hand, his right used solely for the knife, held in the proper form, his index finger held elegantly forward over the top of the blade to provide guidance and leverage. She stared dreamily at the elegant movements of his hands, the steam from her tea swirling in front of her face, forgotten.

She snapped out of it when she realized Cullen was staring at her strangely, his hands paused over his plate. She felt herself blushing as she realized she had not only been staring at him as he ate, but she had been admiring it. Her mother would be proud that some of her childhood lessons in polite society had stuck around so deeply.

“I’m sorry, I was… thinking. Did you say something?” Rosemary asked, hoping her embarrassment didn’t show. She raised her mug to her mouth and took a sip of tea, hoping the movement hid how red her face was.

“I was wondering if it would be all right if I borrowed the book I was reading?” Cullen repeated.

“Oh, yes. I mean, of course you can,” Rosemary said.

“The Herald won’t miss it?”

“Ah, no. That one was one of mine. If you saw anything else you wanted to read, feel free to borrow that, too. I’ve read all the books here. I was planning on raiding the Chantry library today, in fact. Assuming we can get back through the snow.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said, his eyes dropping back to his plate as he went back to his meal.

Rosemary drank her tea in silence, studiously avoiding watching Cullen this time. Once she finished, she said, “I’m going to get dressed now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” Cullen said, standing with her. He sat back down to finish the last of his meal as she placed her mug beside the sink and went into the bedroom.

Cullen’s armour was still stacked beside the wall. Curious, Rosemary went over and ran her fingers across the breastplate, recoiling at the chill of it. No wonder he hadn’t put it on when he dressed this morning, it was practically ice. She considered lifting it to see how heavy it was (the firmness of Cullen’s torso beneath her own had hinted at a lot of strength), but decided against it.

Turning her back to the armour, she dressed for warmth, layering silk stockings beneath leather breeches and topping those with a woolen dress and a knit cardigan. It was a shapeless, unflattering outfit, but it was cold inside the Chantry walls at the best of times, and immediately following a blizzard was not the best of times.

Smoothing her skirts resolutely, she left the room. They will go back to the Chantry, back to work, and back to exchanging the occasional pleasantry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit to writing a smutty, embarrassing end to the scenario that I've posted separately. Whoops.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in one weekend! What is going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversation with Roderick is per the game. I'm trying to avoid too much of that, but I felt like it worked here?

Cullen finished washing the last dish and placed it on the rack beside the sink. His mother had always insisted that good guests clean up after themselves, and he could never dishonour her memory by not being the best guest he could be.

Glancing over at the door and listening, Cullen could hear slight rustling movements. Good, she was still busy. He moved quickly over to the chair and pulled out the Avvar romance novel he had been skimming the night before out from under the pillow, tucking it into his surcoat. He spun around quickly as he heard the door open, and stifled a snort of laughter as he saw Rosemary. She resembled an overstuffed pillow, any hint of the curves he had had pressed against him last night completely obscured by the layers of clothing she was wearing.

With the reminder of last night, the smile fled from his face. He glanced down and busied himself with fluffing the pillow on the chair, placing it at a jaunty angle. What must she think of him, of his weakness? Of him practically attacking her when she had been trying to help? He hadn’t been able to bear looking at her all morning, the hot shame of the evening before rushing through him each time he caught her eye.

His nightmares had been quiet for weeks, and he’d begun to hope that they were gone for good. He had not expected their revival last night, of all nights. He suspected it was the new, unfamiliar location, but that was no excuse for grabbing her like that. He had felt her fear in her faster breathing and the pounding pulse in her wrist. He’d seen her hands shaking after he’d let her go. And Maker, she had still taken the time to ask if he was okay, as if he hadn’t accosted her.

What he was most ashamed of, though, was how much he had enjoyed the feel of her pressed against him, even considering the circumstances. She’d smelled sweet, almost nutty, and the skin of her wrist where he’d grasped it was soft as silk.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Shall we see how it’s looking outside?”

At Rosemary’s nod, Cullen moved towards the door and lifted the latch, tugging it just slightly open in case of snow piled up against it. Miraculously, none fell into the doorway, so Cullen pulled the door open a little wider and peered outside.

The wind of last night appeared to have pushed the lighter layer of snow down the hill; it was piled high between buildings, but in the main road it was only slightly higher than his knees. It was more than possible to get around the town, and once he was back at the Chantry, Cullen could send a message to his second in command to get the men work clearing the roads – it was a good exercise for the arms.

Shutting the door, Cullen turned back to Rosemary and said, “It looks like the path is mostly clear, and the snow is barely falling now. Are you ready to head to the Chantry?”

“Yes, I just need my cloak.”

“All right. I will fetch my armour and then we can leave.”

After buckling his armour on in the bedroom, he exited the room to find Rosemary bundled up even further under her cloak, a scarf wrapped around her head and face, obscuring all but her deep blue eyes.

“Uh, after you, then,” Cullen said, gesturing towards the door. Rosemary gave him a muffled okay and headed out the door, after scrabbling a bit at the door handle, her mittened hands having difficulty grasping the latch.

Following her outside, Cullen realized that the snow was near the top of her thighs, and she hadn’t made much progress through it. He had forgotten her height. “Wait,” he called out. She stopped and turned to look back at him, probably inquisitively, though he couldn’t be sure with all the fabric obscuring her face. “Let me go ahead. I can clear a path for you.”

Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, and after a muffled, “Thank you,” she waited until he had moved ahead of her. He could hear her hands brushing along the snow at the edge of the path he made on their way up the hill to the chantry.

It was still early, the town of Haven mostly still as they went, only a slight glow to the clouds behind the mountain peak hinting that the day had begun. Cullen couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the newly-fallen snow. It covered everything with a blanket of white, the path to the Chantry unbroken and fresh, the icy crystals almost glowing in the faint light from the sky. He took a deep breath and inhaled the sharp, clean scent of the snow.

“As a boy, mornings like this were my favourite,” Cullen said, breaking the silence. “I would wake early so I could be the first one to make a path in the snow. It was always so quiet those mornings. Home was never quiet.”

“You mentioned a sister?” Rosemary said from behind him, questioningly.

“Two sisters. And a brother,” he said.

“I have you beat, then. Two sisters and two brothers.”

“So you probably know about how little peace there is at home. Are you the oldest?” Cullen asked, curious. She had seemed evasive about her past the previous night.

“Second oldest child. Oldest girl. You?”

“Second child, oldest boy,” Cullen said with a laugh.

“We didn’t get much snow in Kirkwall,” Rosemary said. It was hard to tell with her voice still muffled by the scarf, but Cullen thought he detected a hint of wistfulness in her tone. “Watching the other children play the few times there was enough always looked like so much fun, but our parents would never let us join them.”

“They were strict, your parents?”

“Something like that,” she replied, something in her tone making Cullen back off with the questions, and they fell back into silence.

The walk felt much shorter without a howling blizzard around them. They reached the Chantry in good time. Cullen nodded at the guards as he passed through the doors, holding it open behind him for Rosemary to enter.

“I’ll leave you to your work, then,” Cullen said.

Rosemary nodded in reply, busy unwinding her scarf – no, make that TWO scarves from her head and neck. Kirkwallers had no resistance to the cold, though they had seemed impervious to the rain. He had never gotten used to the constant grey of Kirkwall winters.

Brushing the light coating of snow off his fur mantle, Cullen made his way into the war room to find Leliana and Josephine already waiting.

“So you didn’t die in a snowbank. Good to see,” Leliana said with her typical dry humour.

“I’m touched to see you care, Leliana,” Cullen quipped back.

“Oh, I’m just relieved I don’t have to find a new commander for our armies,” Leliana replied with a quirked smile.

“And I do hope I still have a clerk, Commander,” Josephine added. “She is quite indispensable, and the Herald would be so cross if we lost her.”

“You wound me, ladies,” Cullen laughed. “Now, what’s on the docket today?”

The next few hours were passed in deep discussion of troop movements, updates of the Herald’s latest feat (“She has recruited the horse master, and won a race?”), discussions of which nobles favour they should be courting (“Everyone is standing back to see what we’ll do before they will commit their good names”), and who Leliana should send her spies to keep an eye on (“Everyone”).

Leliana and Cullen had just began arguing over whether it was more useful for scouting parties to keep their eyes out for herbs or metals when they became aware of a commotion happening outside the Chantry doors. It sounded like raised voices.

Cullen pushed out of the war room and strode the length of the Chantry to the exit, pushing the doors open. Rosemary was standing next to the entrance, pressed against the wall, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a hand at her throat as she watched wide-eyed. He followed her gaze to see a group of mages and a group of Templars facing off angrily, each accusing the other of being responsible for the Divine’s death.

His timing appeared impeccable. He rushed forward and pushed the two main antagonists apart as they reached for their weapons, roaring, “Enough!”

“Knight-captain!” the former Templar exclaimed angrily, glaring past Cullen at the mage.

“That is not my title. We are NOT Templars any longer. We are ALL part of the Inquisition!” Cullen growled, pointing an accusing finger back and forth between the two factions.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” rang out a familiar nasal voice. Cullen closed his eyes and prayed for strength.

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?”

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised,” Chancellor Roderick said, raising a hand as if he were reciting a sermon.

“Of course you are,” Cullen said, disdain dripping from his words. Unfortunately for the chancellor, Cullen was not about to allow him his attempts to play to the crowd. He walked past the chancellor and shouted, “Back to your duties, all of you!”

Cullen glanced behind to see Rosemary slipping back into the Chantry. Good thing, too; the cold had already turned her nose red when he first came out. He crossed his arms and watched to make sure the crowd dispersed properly. Chancellor Roderick did not disperse with the crowd, standing less than two metres away.

Idiots. Laying blame when there was no evidence to suggest who had been responsible was pointless. They had to play nice, or that hole in the sky was going to swallow us all.

He was still fuming when he glanced to the side to see the Herald approaching, having obviously been witness to the events.

“Mages and Templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death,” he growled, too angry to greet her arrival properly.

“Which is why we require a PROPER authority to guide them back to order,” the chancellor pushed in. The man could not keep his Maker-damned mouth shut.

“Who, you? Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?” Cullen scoffed.

“The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not,” Roderick replied, his tone equally disdainful.

“I don’t believe I’m Andraste’s Herald any more than you do, Chancellor,” Evelyn replied, eyeing Roderick.

“That laudable humility won’t stop the Inquisition from using the misconception when it suits them.”

“The Inquisition claims only that we must close the Breach or perish,” Cullen said, his patience running thin.

“You say that now, Commander. We shall see if the sentiment remains true.”

“The mages and Templars are fighting even though we don’t know what really happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?” Evelyn asked disbelievingly.

“Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine. If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.”

“Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat,” Cullen said angrily. The Chantry had yet to prove itself willing to work with the Inquisition.

“You think nobody cares about the truth? We all grieve Justinia’s loss.”

“But you won’t grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet.” 

“Remind me why you’re allowing the chancellor to stay?” Evelyn said to Cullen, not lowering her voice even slightly, much to his approval.

“Clearly your Templar knows where to draw the line.”

“He’s toothless. There’s no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth,” Cullen said to Evelyn, ignoring the chancellor’s attempt at baiting him. “The chancellor’s a good indicator or what to expect in Val Royeaux, however.”

“Well, let’s hope we find solutions, and not a cathedral full of chancellors,” Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow at Cullen.

“The stuff of nightmares,” he replied, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

“Mock if you will. I’m sure the Maker is less amused.” With that final line, the chancellor finally left in a huff.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Cullen said, bowing towards Evelyn. “I was distracted. We were not sure when to expect you. Where did you shelter during last night’s storm?”

“Let’s get inside the Chantry, and I can talk to all of you about this. It’s cold out here,” Evelyn said, moving towards the doors. 

Cullen followed the Herald after a final glance back to make sure everyone had dispersed. He hoped he wouldn’t have to knock any heads together later. He made a mental note to think up some strenuous activities the sides could do together to force them to play nice.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen reads a book and has a nightmare. Also, I figured out Rich Text, hurray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcannon that, during the rebuilding of Kirkwall after the Chantry explosion, Cullen realized how messed up he'd been acting with regards to mages and spent those years not just working on Kirkwall, but on himself by finding the Theodosian equivalent of a trauma therapist. The nightmares are something that are difficult to control, because when you're asleep, you can't use the various coping mechanisms that the aforementioned therapist might have taught him.
> 
> COMPLETELY UNRELATED, it kind of bothers me that Cullen says "lieutenant" the way he does. In most places that speak English, we pronounce it "left-tenant," not "loo-tenant," so it feels kind of wrong to hear "loo-tenant" in a British accent.

Cullen settled back on his small bed with a sigh. The Herald arriving unexpectedly had completely altered his plans for the day; he had barely managed to get away to do any training by himself before it got dark, his soldiers having already left the training grounds for the evening meal. Thankfully, they hadn’t expected him back at the Chantry after he left with training as his excuse. He didn’t think he could have spent another minute cooped up inside the stuffy war room.

His heavy canvas tent was set away from his men’s, to allow them their privacy. Cullen felt that it was important for his soldiers to feel free to complain about their superior officers without worrying about the commander overhearing. The braziers spaced around the edges of his tent did little more than keep the deadly edge off the cold, but he couldn’t expect his men to put up with conditions he wasn’t willing to share. And truth be told, he often got too heated during the night, which exacerbated the nightmares. His tent was also larger than theirs to allow for the addition of a work desk, and the extra space to move around in was a luxury.

Propping a pillow beneath his neck, Cullen reached over and picked up that Avvar-themed novel he’d taken from Rosemary’s house. Flipping it open, he quickly became engrossed in the story, as ridiculous as it was. 

The basic premise, he learned, was Anyastasia, the daughter of Bann infamous for his slaughter of some Avvar tribe, is kidnapped by the current Thane of Iguana Fjord Hold who ascended to his position after his father and older brother were among those killed by the Bann. So, logically, Mikhail decided that the only proper way to get revenge on the Bann was to steal his daughter, seduce her, impregnate her, and send her back once she was heavy with child.

(What a ridiculous name for a Fereldan woman, thought Cullen. And Iguana Fjord Hold? It sounded like the author mushed together a large animal and a mountain piece and stuck the word “hold” after it. And wait, he thought, if the hold was Iguana Fjord, why was there a lion on the cover? Cullen found himself wondering why the author hadn’t seemed to think about asking what sorts of names were common in the places she wrote about. He also wasn’t entirely certain how providing a lord with a grandchild was equivalent to that lord murdering your entire family, but Cullen decided to suspend belief for the time being.)

 

> “Holding her close to his chiseled body, Mikhail groaned as he felt her plump bosom press against his muscular torso, her peaked nipples begging for his touch.”

In spite of himself, his mind flashed back to Rosemary pressed against him the previous night, how soft her breasts had been pressed against him, the tight buds of her nipples hard from the cold of the room. He shifted uncomfortably, willing the unwelcome twinges of arousal at the thought of her away.

Moving his attention back to the book, it continued:

 

> “Mikhail pressed her to the bed, thrusting his engorged manhood into the welcoming cradle of Anyastasia’s hips. ‘Oh, Anya,’ he moan, sliding his hand along her silky, glistening thigh to cup the dewy core of her femininity. Anyastasia gasped as Mikhail stroked along her womanly petals, spreading the nectar of her desire. She clutched at his head as he bent and took the peak of her voluptuous bosom into his devouring mouth, arching her body into his. ‘Mikhail,’ she gasped, her core fluttering as he thrust his manly finger into her moist and welcoming cave.”

Cullen’s ears burned. He had no idea that these novels were quite so explicit. He was already half-hard in spite of the ridiculously flowery descriptions. An image flashed in his head of Rosemary bent over these pages, her thighs clamped together to ease the ache of her arousal, maybe her free hand cupped around one breast, toying with her nipple…

His conscience pinged at that, but his libido ignored it, stiffening further at the image in his head. Clenching his jaw, he ignored the ache. A man had needs, and he accepted and took care of those, but there were limits to what was appropriate and fantasizing about colleagues went beyond those limits. He had been too long without companion, was all.

 The passage continued:

 

> “’I must taste you,’ Mikhail breathed, kissing down Anyastasia’s soft, smooth belly. He pressed his mouth to the centre of her, lapping at the juices of her love and glorying in the moans of passion his consuming attention elicited.”

Fuck. That last passage was his undoing. Sighing in defeat, Cullen set the book aside and rubbed his right hand over his chest and slipping his left down his stomach to slip beneath the waist of his linen breeches. He groaned as his hand closed over his shaft, stroking soft and slow, skin moving smoothly over the hardness and relieving some of the ache.

His eyes slipped closed and he surrendered to the fantasy.

Her breasts would fit perfectly in his hands, the nipples pressing into his palms as he cupped them. She’d pant softly as he kneaded the flesh, the sensitive peaks tightening as he moved.

He pushed the waist of his breeches down further, allowing for more range of movement as he lengthened his strokes, keeping them languid and slowly building the pleasure. 

Her moan would be soft and sweet when he took a nipple in his mouth, flicking it back and forth before lightly grazing his teeth over the nub, softly sucking to soothe the ache. His fingers would find her soaking wet, sliding easily along her labia.

He stroked faster, groaning quietly as the tingling along his nerves increased.

He thought of what she’d taste like. Would she be more sweet, or tangy? Would she clutch at his hair as he lazily stroked his tongue over her folds? Would she thrust her hips into his face, or writhe helplessly when he used his fingers to press inside of her and massage the secret spot within?

He was thrusting his hips into his hand now, chasing his orgasm.

Would she cry out his name when he thrust himself into her and ground his hips against hers? Or would she call out for the Maker as he pumped his cock into her over and over until she clenched around him, the pulsing of her walls pushing him over the edge and…

Cullen bit his lip as he came, stifling the moans as his cock twitched and sparks of pleasure sung along his nerves. He softened his strokes until it became too much, then dropped his hands beside himself and panted softly, catching his breath. That had been… intense.

The embarrassment came roaring in and doused the glow of his orgasm. He pulled off his shirt and used it to clean himself, tossing it aside and chastising himself for not fighting it harder. Rosemary was the Herald’s trusted companion, and Josephine’s trusted clerk, and technically his underling, and on top of those, she was obviously frightened of him now, with the way she had avoided him all day, scurrying in the opposite direction every time their paths happened to cross, which was often in the small Chantry.

Cullen sat up to douse the lantern, crossing an arm over his face as he lay back. Heaving a sigh, he prayed for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

His dream started as it always did. He was guarding Sonora Amell at her Harrowing; all signs pointed to her having passed it, coming through unscathed, the mages celebrating her victory and the Templars relieved that they wouldn’t have to deal with an abomination. Sonora speaks to him, asking if he would have been able to strike her down. He says yes and she walks away, her shoulders slumped.

The scene morphs – it’s no longer mages but abominations celebrating. His fellow Templars are unarmed, defenseless, hung from the ceilings and tortured. Sonora comes to him, Desire in her eyes, temptation in her body, and coaxes him to join her, join them, in tormenting his brothers and sisters. He resists though his body aches for hers, only the cries of his compatriots shoring up his resolve.

In his dreams, the temptation always proves too great. He takes demon-Sonora’s hand, drawing his sword and advancing on a trainee strung up on a cross, Sonora’s whispers urging him on from behind.

He woke in a cold sweat as his sword begins to fall toward the trainee’s terrified face.

Cullen hadn’t given into the Desire demon that had taken over Sonora Amell before Elissa Cousland had saved him in the real world, but in his nightmares he always succumbs. The terrible acts always change, torture and murder and seduction, but in his dreams, he is weak.

Cullen recited the chant in his head, concentrating on the passage and controlling his breathing until he fell back into a shallow, restless sleep.

* * *

 

Cullen woke hours before dawn, as he always did the nights the terrors come. He dressed, forgoing his armour and surcoat this early, and spent the next few hours going over various requisition forms, reports from his officers on the performance of their growing forces, and adding notes to the memos sent down by Leliana and Josephine.

He felt restless after two nights with little sleep, the edge of exhaustion shivering down his spine and urging him to keep moving. The lyrium cravings were always worse when he was missing sleep, setting his teeth on edge and tremors in his hands, and he sought every distraction at his disposal, papers spread over his desk. As the first hints of dawn began rising over the mountains, Cullen could hear his soldiers setting up in the training grounds, muffled jokes and the testing clacks of practice swords meeting carrying over the grounds.

It’s been weeks since he spent any real time with his trainees, Cullen realized. He nodded to himself and set down the report he was reading – he would spend the day with his soldiers today, and ensure he set aside a couple of hours every day going forward so he wouldn’t have to rely on Rylen’s nigh-unreadable scribbles to give him feedback. They had already decided the previous night that the Herald was going to head to Val Royeaux after she caught her breath at Haven; they wouldn’t need him for anything important today, and he needed the distraction of hard physical exertion.

Grabbing his practice sword from where it leant against his travel desk, he hefted it thoughtfully in his hand. It was getting easier to lift again; he’d have to talk to the blacksmith about getting another with more lead in the core. Ducking out the tent, he strode briskly to the training grounds, sending a messenger once there to inform Leliana and Josephine he would be otherwise engaged, and that they could send memos with anything they felt he needed to know, but that he trusted them to capably organize the Herald’s travel to Orlais.

He engaged in gentle sparring with the first shift of soldiers, getting a feel for where they were at in their training, and then in some less-than-gentle sparring with Ser Rylen to work off some of his restlessness until they broke for the midday meal. Forgoing the hands-on training in the afternoon, he paced through the ranks of soldiers, adjusting a hold here and barking out a reminder of the purpose of shields there.

He was occupied with discussing the training regimen with one of his lieutenants when the Herald approached, honing in on him.

“Did you need something?” Cullen inquired as she approached.

“I’d like to know more about the Templars,” Evelyn replied.

It made sense that she’d be asking. Cullen still insisted that they seek the aid of the Templars over that of the mages for assistance in closing the Breach and he’d voiced that opinion the previous night. Evelyn seemed the sort of woman who weighed every option after spending as much time as possible learning about it.

“If you need insight into what the Order is doing now, I’m afraid I can’t offer more than you already know. Anything else I will answer as best I can.”

It turned out, he was right in that. Evelyn had a lot of questions for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love romance novels (I mean, I say in my summary I've been reading a lot of fallen-woman ones!), but some of the old-skool ones that I read when I was younger and would read anything with a clinch cover had the purplest of prose. And it also turns out that purple prose is really tough to write.
> 
> It also turns out that trying to write non-purple sexy stuff after writing deliberately purple sexy stuff makes you seriously question whether you know what sexy is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got away from me a little.

Rosemary had lost Evelyn.

Evelyn had stumbled back into their house much past dark the night before, clearly exhausted. As curious as Rosemary was about what Evelyn had been up to the past two months away in the Hinterlands, she had taken one look at Evelyn’s drawn face and sent her straight to bed, insisting they could catch up the next day. However, when the next day actually came, Josephine sent around a messenger at barely past dawn requesting the Herald’s presence in the war room, and they agreed to meet sometime after the noonday meal.

It was now an hour past noon, and Evelyn was nowhere to be found.

A patrolling guard said she thought she’d seen Evelyn making her way down to the training grounds, so Rosemary was currently picking her way carefully down the frozen paths from Haven proper. The snow from the blizzard two days earlier had been cleared from the main pathways, but the low temperature had covered the ground in a slippery layer of ice instead. As the cost of salt was so high, the Inquisition had made the strategic decision to focus salting the training grounds, figuring that trained soldiers took precedence over easily walked pathways – after all, the risks of dying from falling on an icy road were much smaller than the risks of dying in battle if you kept stabbing yourself or your comrades. So now Rosemary had to keep a watch out for both her footing and for Evelyn’s signature mop of curly white hair.

Gingerly placing her feet along the path, trying to ensure they had a good grip before she lifted the next one, Rosemary thought again about how she needed to buy some proper winter boots. The initial plan had been only to stay at the Conclave for a couple of weeks, back in early winter. Neither she nor Evelyn had bothered to purchase any proper cold weather items, bringing their winter gear for the milder climate of the Free Marches and extra sweaters to wear underneath. Evelyn, of course, had since been suited up properly, but while Rosemary had found her thick winter coat, she still hadn’t gotten around to buying proper boots with grippy soles, figuring she was going to spend most of her days inside the Chantry anyway, so her regular winter boots would be fine.

It was a decision she was currently regretting, as her foot slipped again, nearly toppling her onto her bottom in the middle of the path. Cursing under her breath, she pinwheeled her arms until her feet were firmly planted beneath her again. Glancing around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed her undignified almost-fall, she shook her skirts back in order and continued even more carefully down the path, walking with exaggeratedly cautious steps. Few things were quite as embarrassing as falling on your arse in front of a group of people. It was best to avoid it.

Coming out of Haven’s main gate, Rosemary could see the soldiers engaged in mock battles down the hill, swinging at each other with varying levels of skill. Or so she assumed. She actually had never held a sword before. She guessed that those who succeeded most often at hitting their opponents were the ones who knew what they were doing. Cullen was just tall enough to be visible over the tangle of practicing soldiers, standing in what appeared to be a path separating the trainees into two groups.

If Evelyn had come down to the training grounds, Rosemary reasoned, it was probably to talk to Cullen about Templars. So it only made sense that Rosemary first checked with Cullen if he had seen Evelyn. Her heart beat a little faster at the thought, little butterflies in her stomach fluttering.

When Rosemary had first heard the shouting outside the Chantry the day before, she had grabbed her shawl and walked out to see what it was about. She had assumed it was a merchant come to yell at Threnn, as she was known for pushing peoples’ buttons. And Rosemary hated to admit it (even to herself), but it was a little thrilling being witness to the petty dramas that seemed to go on in such a small town.

It wasn’t quite as thrilling to find a Templar and a mage facing each other down in front of the Chantry, however, especially as each had had a crowd of supporters gather behind them. The air was crackling with tension, but thankfully only tension – though it certainly had looked as if the air crackling with lightning was not far off.

She’d pressed herself into the wall in an instinctual attempt to make herself invisible and had been watching with rising fear when Cullen had come storming out of the doors and fearlessly pushed the two antagonists apart as if they hadn’t both been reaching for their weapons. He’d been all shouty and commanding, and, quite frankly, ridiculously sexy. He’d been very much the Commander of the Inquisition, and she’d been very much having difficulty not staring.

She’d been too flustered to talk to him after that, too worried her words would come out as admiring nonsense instead of coherent, normal conversation, so she’d ducked away every time he happened to walk near her. In retrospect, it probably looked even more suspicious than saying “hello” in passing would have, so maybe today she would have the chance to remedy that.

Mentally girding her loins (however it was that one girds their loins), Rosemary made her way down the slope. They had chosen to ice this part of the path, most likely because it would have otherwise been an icy slide and not a path, but it just so happened that her boots were exactly as useful in cold mud as they were on slippery paths. This was to say, not very.

Having successfully made her way down the muddy hill on her feet and not her behind, Rosemary made her way to the area she had seen Cullen standing from her viewpoint at the top of the hill. Rounding the group nearest her, she could see Evelyn was indeed talking to Cullen, who had his back turned to Rosemary. As Rosemary approached, Evelyn made brief eye contact with Rosemary and made a small “stop there” motion with her hand. Confused, Rosemary slowed her pace until she was standing a little ways behind Cullen, just close enough to hear the conversation over the clashing of the training weapons.

“… Not to seek wealth or acknowledgement. Our lives belong to the Maker and the path we have chosen,” Cullen was saying.

Rosemary watched Evelyn’s expression turn impish. Blast. Rosemary knew what that face meant. Evelyn was about to ask something inappropriate. Rosemary held back and waited to see what Evelyn was going to come out with next, because while it was often embarrassing, it was also often extremely amusing.

“A life of service and sacrifice. Are Templars also expected to give up… physical temptations?” Evelyn asked suggestively. Rosemary shook her head. Evelyn was practically waggling her eyebrows. It was a pretty common source of interest, though, especially among young noblewomen in Kirkwall. Or at least it had been.

“Physical? Why…” Cullen cleared his throat. Rosemary could see his shoulders had drawn back a little. “Why would you…”

He paused a brief moment, presumably to gather his thoughts. “That’s not expected. Templars can marry – although there are rules around it, and the order must grant permission… Some may choose to give up more to prove their devotion, but it’s, um, not required.”

Evelyn had been nodding along, her lips pursed. “Have you?”

Rosemary clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a sound that would probably have been most accurately described as a squawk if it had escaped, created by a combination of hysterical laughter and a shocked gasp. She widened her eyes at Evelyn, trying to accurately portray her feelings of WHAT ARE YOU DOING, EVELYN, THIS IS NOT APPROPRIATE.

“Me? I… um, no. I’ve taken no such vows,” Cullen stammered, clearly startled into answering. “Maker’s breath – can we speak of something else?”

“Did you hear that, Rosie?” Evelyn asked archly, turning her attention to Rosemary with a dramatic flair. “He’s taken no such vows.”

Cullen spun around with a surprising amount of speed considering both the ground conditions and the weight of his armour, meeting Rosemary’s wide, startled cobalt eyes with his own mortified bronze ones.

Realizing she still had her hand held over her mouth, Rosemary dropped it to her side and began twisting a fold of her skirt with it instead. Her mind raced as she tried to think of something – oh Maker, anything – that would be an appropriate response to what Evelyn had just declared.

“Congratulations,” Rosemary’s traitorous mouth said before her mind made a decision.

Cullen’s expression turned from clear embarrassment to polite confusion. Rosemary glared as Evelyn let out a delicate cough, clearly trying to suppress her hysterical laughter, her eyes filling with mirth.

            Vowing she would strangle Evelyn later, Rosemary attempted to salvage what was left of her dignity. As per her childhood deportment lessons, when one has made a verbal misstep, the best solution was to pretend it never happened and hope no one else noticed or was polite enough to not comment.

            “Evelyn, we were going to catch up this afternoon? I can see you are busy consulting with Commander Rutherford at the moment, but Josephine agreed I could have the afternoon off, so I will meet you at home. Commander, it was nice to see you again.”

            Nodding politely at Cullen, Rosemary turned to head back to Haven.

            Promptly slipping in the mud and landing face first into a muddy puddle of melted snow.

“Maker’s breath, are you all right?” A warm hand gripped her upper arm, helping her stand. Rosemary wiped the mud from her eyes to see Cullen’s concerned face hovering over her. Rosemary glanced behind to where Evelyn was officially no longer attempting to hold back that hysterical laughter. The nearest soldiers had stopped what they were doing to watch, clearly trying to be nice and not join in with Evelyn but also quite clearly amused.

Dignity. Rosemary had worried about it on her way down, and she had worried about it when replying to Evelyn, and she had worried about it when leaving. And this is what happened. This was the second time she had fallen in front of the commander. At least this time she’d tipped forward instead of backward. It was important to keep people guessing.

Rosemary’s shoulders shook a little as the first giggle hiccupped out. She bit her lip, trying not to give in because then she couldn’t be mad at Evelyn for giving in.

“Are you hurt?” Cullen asked as he pressed a clean handkerchief into Rosemary’s hands, his face concerned as his eyes focused on her. Rosemary shook her head, more giggles bubbling out. She swiped the handkerchief across her face, attempting to clean off the worst. Pulling it away, she saw the entire thing was saturated already, and she could still feel more dripping down from her hair.

That was it. The dam burst, laughter bubbling up. Rosemary used the last clean corner of the handkerchief to dab at the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. Cullen’s expression melted from concern to bemusement. She was now officially the Herald’s eccentric friend, at least to Cullen, Rosemary thought to herself. Seriously, though, “congratulations” was the best thing she could think to say? Another burst of giggles escaped at that. Oh, maker.

Rosemary concentrated on taking deep breathes, trying to get the laughter under control. Which was maybe not a good thing, because once she stopped laughing, she became aware of how cold she was. Her entire front was soaked through, covered in mud, and it was still the depths of winter. In fact, a light snow had started to fall as they had stood there, tiny flakes settling atop her damp hair. A full body shiver wracked her body, her teeth chattering as it made its way to her head.

“You’re freezing,” Cullen stated, noticing the shiver. Rosemary nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. Evelyn noticed, too, and stopped laughing, moving up beside Rosemary and wrapping a concerned arm around her.

“Is there somewhere warm nearby we can take her until I can get her another coat?” Evelyn asked Cullen.

“My tent – it’s just over by that copse of trees.”

“That will do,” Evelyn said crisply. “Please take us there.”

They followed Cullen around the group of soldiers, the sounds of a sergeant barking orders to get back to work trailing away behind them. Rosemary concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to shake too badly. It wasn’t a far walk at all, thankfully. Cullen held the tent flap open to allow Rosemary and Evelyn to duck under before he followed them in.

Rosemary took in her surroundings. The space was spacious enough for the three of them to be able to move around each other, but there wouldn’t have been room for very many more people. The bed was made up with military precision, and the stacks of paper on the desk were in tidy piles. It was exactly what Rosemary would have expected.

Evelyn helped Rosemary out of her wet jacket, pushing her into a chair. Rosemary startled as a heavy blanket settled over her shoulders – she hadn’t even noticed Cullen opening the chest at the end of his bed.

“Thank you,” she said, tugging the edges around her shoulders.

“I will go fetch my spare jacket,” Evelyn said, “and then we’ll get you back home.”

Rosemary nodded and mumbled her appreciation as Evelyn ducked back out of the tent. Rosemary willed her teeth to stop chattering.

“Here, give me your hand,” Cullen ordered as he kneeled in front of her, holding out a hand. Her heart gave a quick, hard thump in her chest. Rosemary only hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his outstretched one. If her hand shook, it was easily excused by how cold she was.

A bolt of sensation went shooting from Rosemary’s hand directly to her stomach as it met Cullen’s much larger, calloused one. His skin was warm, shockingly so considering how cold out it was. He briskly chafed her fingers between his hands for a few minutes, the friction providing warmth. She couldn’t take her eyes away from where her hand disappeared in the cage of his; the size of his hands made hers look tiny and delicate. A light dusting of golden hair was peeking out from under his sleeve, the tendons on the back of his hands leading from there to long, elegant fingers.

“How are your hands so warm? It’s below freezing outside,” Rosemary inquired, wincing slightly as feeling came back into her numb fingers.

“A benefit of being from Ferelden, I suppose,” Cullen replied, his tone distracted. “We’re all born with internal furnaces to get us through our winters.”

Rosemary caught her breath as the tips of his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, Cullen’s callouses scraping lightly in a sensation that was not at all unpleasant. The Orlesian’s hands had been as soft as her own; Cullen’s were rough from decades of sword training, a complete contrast in texture. Rosemary bit her lip as she imagined those callouses scraping against other, more sensitive places… the nape of her nape. The curve of her waist. The inside of her thighs…

Blushing furiously at her own thoughts, Rosemary snatched her hand back as politely as was possible. “It’s good now, thank you,” she said, tucking her hand back under the blanket.

“Then the other?”

Rosemary hesitated a moment, her cheeks still flushed. Taking a deep breath, she reached out and placed her other hand into his. She could feel the heat of her blush still high in her cheeks, but there wasn’t really anything she could do about that. Her heart was racing as his hands warmed around hers, but she concentrated on keeping her breathing even, her mouth slightly open as she focused on counting.

The downside of that, however, was that her gasp was audible this time when his fingers again slid across the inside of her wrist. Cullen’s hands paused in their movements as he looked up to meet Rosemary’s mortified eyes, her face no doubt an unflattering shade of red. His eyes hooded slightly as he shifted his grip and stroked his thumb in a deliberate caress across the pulse point. Rosemary’s breath hitched as his thumb moved in small circles, his eyes never moving from hers.

Which is how they were sitting when the flap opened and Evelyn burst in, scraping her feet on the muddy mat at the entry. “I’ve got the coat,” she said, raising an eyebrow as Rosemary quickly pulled her hand under the blanket and Cullen stood, clearing his throat. “Did I miss something?”

“Uh, no, um, Cull – the Commander was just helping me warm my hands,” Rosemary stammered. Her face was permanently red now. This was her life. “The Herald’s companion, Red Face” the stories will say.

“Warming your hands,” Evelyn repeated. “That was kind of him.” She held the coat out to Rosemary, who rose, shrugging the blanket off onto the chair, and took it and swung it on.

“Thank you again, Commander,” Rosemary said in Cullen’s general direction, briefly meeting his eyes before concentrating her attention onto buttoning the coat. “It was much appreciated.”

“It was my pleasure,” Cullen replied, bowing slightly in their direction. Rosemary fancied she heard a thread of something more than strict politeness underneath. Breathless still, she followed Evelyn out the tent and back to their house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rosemary is reminded that the world does not revolve around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the thing! Yay!

            Rosemary could feel Evelyn watching her speculatively as they walked back to their house, but she pretended to be concentrating extra hard on her footing and avoided Evelyn’s gaze. Rosemary knew she couldn’t avoid Evelyn’s questions for very long, but she could at least put them off until they were inside.

            Rosemary felt like her insides were simultaneously twisted up around each other and also made of pure goo, a confusing feeling that made an odd sort of sense. Embarrassment tied her innards into knots, and the lingering heat of Cullen’s caress had melted them. She wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. One moment, he was brisk and business-like, nothing personal in the way his hands had moved on hers. The next moment, he was maintaining some serious eye contact and stroking her skin like a… well, like a lover.

            And Maker, she’d enjoyed it.

            But she was also confused by it. And to be fair, he had also looked as surprised by what he had been doing when Evelyn walked in as Rosemary had been. So maybe it had just been instinctual on Cullen’s part, in that he was a man and she was a woman and he was holding her hands with his and it just happened.

            Yes. That was exactly what it was. He hadn’t been thinking about her, he’d just been going through the motions without being aware of what he was doing. Rosemary was both disappointed in and relieved by her conclusion. Disappointed because it had felt _nice._ Relieved because she wouldn’t have to do anything about how nice it had felt because Maker knew that would be complicated. She was spoiled goods; no longer the pure and virginal noblewoman, but also not the experienced seductress. She had nothing to offer anyone except emotional baggage.

            And stew, possibly.

            But basically, not very much. Not enough.

            Rosemary glanced up from her thoughts and was startled to realize they were already at the house. She had been so lost in thought that she stopped paying attention to her surroundings. Taking a deep breath, she prepared to face the Maker. Or rather, Evelyn. But that didn’t sound as dramatic.

            “I’m going to go change into something dry. And warm,” Rosemary said immediately upon entering the house, forestalling any potential attempt at asking about the tent events Evelyn may have been planning. Evelyn gave Rosemary a knowing look as Rosemary scurried into the bedroom to change.

            Okay, so she had a few minutes to think about what she would say to Evelyn. “Cullen dropped something. In my hands.” No. That wouldn’t work. “He was reading my palm. Apparently I will have five children!” Definitely not. “We were praying.” Nope.

            “I am not good at this,” Rosemary muttered to herself as she rummaged through her dresses, searching for the warmest one.

            The truth, then? It wasn’t as if him helping her warm her hands was scandalous. Rosemary knew scandal. Hand-holding was not scandal.

            But on the other hand, Evelyn would probably make more of it than there was to be made. Though Evelyn had given up on her overt matchmaking attempts, Rosemary hadn’t missed how Evelyn very nearly vibrated whenever Rosemary so much as spoke to a man. No, wait! Rosemary had heard rumours this morning at the Chantry that Evelyn had brought a man back with her from the Hinterlands, a man not much younger than Evelyn, some burly bearded type. Problem solved. Rosemary would deflect the conversation onto Evelyn as soon as Evelyn thought to ask a question.

            Changing quickly into the warmest dress she’d pulled from the wardrobe, Rosemary exited into the main room full of resolve. Evelyn was already seated on the sofa, the fire stoked and wood crackling happily in the hearth, the flickering tongues of flame causing the shadows to writhe. Evelyn pointed to the easy chair across from her.

            Rosemary sat and braced herself for the questions.

            “I brought a man back with me,” Evelyn gushed. “His name is Gordon Blackwall, he is a Grey Warden, and he is gorgeous.”

            Slightly deflated, Rosemary sat back a moment. This was not how she had expected things to go. Mentally shaking herself, she switched gears. “Where did you find him?” she asked.

            “Leliana sent a raven saying that she had heard of a Grey Warden in the Hinterlands and that I should seek him out for information, so I did.” Evelyn sighed dreamily, her eyes softening and looking off into the distance. “He was training some poor boys to defend themselves, raw recruits that they were. He stopped an arrow for me. Just zip – caught it in his shield!”

            Rosemary gasped. “An ARROW?”

            Evelyn waved her hand dismissively. “An arrow was the least of what we were dealing with in the Hinterlands. But anyway, he had said he was going to recruit those boys but he was selflessly training them to defend themselves. And his eyes are so blue, they’re like… like something that is really blue. And his beard is just so… so black. And full.”

            Rosemary stifled a giggle. Evelyn had never really been into poetry. Not enough action, Evelyn was fond of saying about it. “So you just up and brought home a Grey Warden because of his blue eyes and black beard?”

            Evelyn looked slightly offended. “Of course not. He offered to help the Inquisition, and who am I to say no to a hand held out in assistance?”

            “So the blue eyes and black beard were just bonuses,” Rosemary said, laughing.

            “Yes. Highly appreciated bonuses,” Evelyn replied haughtily.

            “Well, good. It’s been how many years since your husband died? You shouldn’t have to be alone.”

            “Speaking of alone…” Evelyn began, and Rosemary groaned internally, “I heard you and the Commander spent the night together.”

            “There was a blizzard, and he got stuck. Nothing happened,” Rosemary said.

            “Oh, all right then. So I heard that Warden Blackwall has been spending his time by the stables. Do you think it’s too soon to go talk to him? I don’t want to come on too strong, you know, but I want to make sure he’s interested and that he knows I’m interested.”

            Rosemary blinked. That was it? That was all Evelyn was going to say? That was unexpected, to say the least. Slightly disoriented, she replied, “I don’t think I’m your best guide on romantic interactions, Evelyn.”

            “Hmm, maybe I’ll go now, then. As they say, there is no time like the present.” Evelyn stood and brushed invisible dust off her linen pants. “I will see you at dinner, Rosie.”

            Rosemary watched, confused, as Evelyn straightened her shoulders and marched out the door, full of purpose.

            She had not been expecting that. It was good, she guessed, since she hadn’t exactly been sure what to say anyway, but Evelyn’s apparent lack of interest had thrown her a bit. “The world does not revolve around you, Rosemary,” she reminded herself.

            Standing, Rosemary moved into the kitchen and began preparing dinner, Evelyn’s favourite, whole roast chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. A simple meal, but it did require some preparation.

            Rosemary pondered Evelyn’s actions as she chopped and stuffed and trussed. Evelyn must have gone to see the Commander as a way to distract herself from visiting the warden in what she felt was in too soon a timeframe upon returning to Haven. And it certainly did appear that Evelyn had been asking Cullen about Templars when Rosemary had arrived. Sweet Andraste, Evelyn had even asked the poor man about his vows. Rosemary was embarrassed to admit it hadn’t even occurred to her to wonder if he had taken any chastity vows. It was most likely due to vows of chastity ruining any potential for fantasies, if she was honest with herself.

Rosemary placed the chicken in the oven and checked that the fire was at the right height before washing her hands and moving back into the sitting area. She sat back onto the easy chair and reached under the side table for her yarn.

            Wait – hadn’t there been a book there? Rosemary frowned slightly, thinking back. Yes, a couple of days ago she had finished reading that Avvar romance and had put it on the table, intending to put it back on the communal bookshelf in the Chantry later. Maybe it had been knocked off at some point?

            She bent and glanced around the general area, peering under the table and chair. She was certain it had been there on the table, but it definitely wasn’t underneath the couch or sofa. Straightening up, she chewed her lip and glanced around the room. Maybe she had absentmindedly tidied it up? Standing and moving over to the shelf where they kept their books, Rosemary scanned the spines. Not there, either.

            Crossing her arms, Rosemary glanced around the room for ideas. It had definitely been here. Rosemary would have noticed if Evelyn had done anything with it. The only other person who had been in the house was Cullen, and he wouldn’t have touched it. Would he?

            Rosemary blushed to think of Cullen reading it and knowing that SHE had read it. It was somehow more embarrassing that he knew she was reading smutty literature than it was that anyone else knew. And that particular novel had a lot of… Maker, even thinking it to herself was embarrassing. It had a lot of the hero with his face between the legs of the heroine, is what it had. What if it convinced him that Rosemary was obsessed with it? Did men even like that? Rosemary hadn’t even known it was a thing until she started reading those romance novels; whispers among the other girls growing up meant she knew that women would do that to men, but it couldn’t be common the other way around if no one spoke of it.

            Blessed Andraste, Rosemary really hoped he hadn’t taken it and read it.

            Rosemary had moved back to the chair and was lifting the cushion to check beneath it when Evelyn burst back into the door with a blast of icy air, her cheeks burnished a darker colour from what Rosemary assumed was the cold.

            “He enjoys my company,” Evelyn announced, pulling out a chair at the dining table and taking a seat.

            “Who wouldn’t? You’re a delight,” Rosemary replied, replacing the cushion and taking a seat.

            “I think I will take him with me to Val Royeaux. Solas can stay here this time. Cassandra and Varric are wonderful company, but I always felt like Solas was judging me. And finding me wanting.”

            “To be fair, he doesn’t really know you,” Evelyn said. “I’m sure that, given time, he’ll open up. Or if he doesn’t, it will just prove that he isn’t as wise as he thinks he is.”

            Evelyn smiled at Rosemary. “He does indeed think he’s wise. Stuck-up is what I’d call it. I have at least a decade on him, you think that would grant me a little respect.” Evelyn sniffed the air, and her expression changed to one of delight. “Is that roast chicken?”

            “I thought you deserved a treat,” Rosemary answered.

            “Wonderful! Speaking of treats,” Evelyn trailed off slightly.

            “Yes?” Rosemary said warily.

            “The commander definitely is one, wouldn’t you agree? I saw him holding your hand. ‘Nothing happened,’ Andraste’s flaming knickers.”

            There it was. Warden Blackwall had granted Rosemary some respite, but evidently even his blue eyes and black beard were only a distraction until Evelyn was assured of a mutual interest.

            “He was warming my hands,” Rosemary said stiffly. “They were cold. Because I fell into a puddle, you remember? You were there.”

            “I somehow doubt he warms the hands of any of his soldiers, my dear.”

            “I’m not a soldier, I am a cushy scribe with soft hands,” Rosemary retorted. “He probably felt sorry for me.”

            “I doubt that very much, Rosie,” Evelyn said.

            “It has to be that,” Rosemary said. Evelyn’s expression softened. She had never asked Rosemary much about her past, but Rosemary knew Evelyn had her various theories.

            “You know best,” Evelyn said. “Now, when will that chicken be ready? I am starving!”

            Again, that went easier than Rosemary had expected. Maybe Evelyn had given up on Rosemary.

            Secretly, though, Rosemary hoped that she hadn’t. Evelyn’s belief in Rosemary made it easier for Rosemary to believe in herself sometimes.

            “Oh, I was wondering. Did you see a book around the table since you’ve been home? It was called _The Barbarian Who Loved Me: An Avvar Love story_ , and I can’t seem to find it.”

            “You know I don’t read those silly little books,” Evelyn replied dismissively. “I’m sure it will turn up.”

            Oh, blast. That meant Cullen definitely took it. Rosemary hoped he wasn’t too horrified by all the… the, um, smuttiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn flat-out refused to cooperate in this one. She wanted to gush about Blackwall. I haven't even romanced Blackwall in a playthrough, but I get it, Evelyn, he is your type.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's do the time warp agaaaaaaain. *jumps to the left*

Cullen finished reading the report updating him and the advisors on the Herald’s current whereabouts before he placed it down on his desk and rubbed his eyes. He could feel the headache brewing, the tendons along the back of his skull growing taut and the ache radiating upwards from the base of his skull.

The Herald was on her way back to Haven, the mages in tow. She had made her decision, and while it was not what Cullen had recommended, he could not complain. After all, he had been among those who had chosen to give the Herald the power to – no, the responsibility of – choosing their allies in closing the breach.

The herald’s letter to that effect had been unusual in tone for her. Her previous updates, including the one outlining Lord Seeker Lucius punching a revered mother in Val Royeaux, had read more like chapters of a novel than reports. The letter detailing the events at Redcliffe had been perfunctory and brief, ending with an ominous request to meet with the advisors upon her return. Cassandra had convinced herself that something had happened to the Herald and it was all because the Herald had chosen to take Blackwall instead of Cassandra, the Herald saying that three people swinging swords were more liable to hit each other than the enemy, a point which Cassandra had reluctantly conceded. Cullen had to admit he was grateful that Cassandra had stayed; her support had been invaluable on the dark days the call of lyrium was too much to bear alone. At this point, though, there was little to do but wait and see what will happen. 

Standing, Cullen stretched his arms behind his head and rotated his neck, hearing the spine crack as he attempted to ease the tension. He might as well take this brief respite to relax. Maker knows there had been no time to himself since the Herald had left, and there would be no time once they knew what she had planned. He still hadn’t had a chance to finish that book he had taken from Rosemary’s – he had been nearly finished when things got too busy for pleasure reading.

His ears grew a little warm at his unintentional double entendre. The book contained a somewhat surprising amount of sex, and, well, he was a healthy man with healthy appetites, and he could admit to himself in the privacy of his own mind that the only thing better than reading about making a woman come undone with your mouth was actually doing it, and Maker did that book ever seem to agree. And he also had to admit a desire to know how things ended for Anyastasia and Mikhail. Happily ever after, of course, that was a given, but the exact circumstances were a mystery and Cullen was keen to find them out.

But first, a hot bath. Cullen made his way from his tent to the Chantry where the bathing room had been designated for the use of the advisors. He usually used the same communal bathing area his men used, but with his head aching as much as it was, the hot water would be better at relaxing the tense muscles in his neck than the lukewarm water the boilers were able to manage in the cold. Glancing around Haven’s streets as he walked as the setting sun cast a golden lining on the snow covered buildings, he made mental notes in his head of areas they could place tents, of which houses were empty, and where new houses could be built, mentally drafting plans to present to the others at their next meeting. Space was limited, but there weren’t a large number of mages, at least per the Herald’s letter. With two weeks to plan, possibly three depending on weather and how quickly the mages could travel, Cullen was confident they could find enough space to house everyone in varying levels of comfort, and ensure there was a Templar situated close enough to intervene if anything went wrong.  
Entering the dimness of the Chantry, Cullen glanced around the main room for Leliana or Josephine. The lock on the bathing chamber was broken and had never been fixed, presumably because the mothers who had lived there were not concerned about any invasions of privacy, but it was definitely something he was concerned about. Not so much for Leliana and Josephine’s sake – he had a feeling that they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash if they walked in on him in the nude – but for his own. He was a Fereldan to the bone, after all, and a decade in Kirkwall had not changed any of his bathing habits.

Catching sight of Leliana towards the entrance of the room she and Josephine shared, he nodded his head towards the bathing chamber and waited for he gesture of understanding before he went in. It was a simple set up; a large cistern was filled with water and heated over a fire, from which a pipe extruded into a stonework tub with a hammered metal inset. The serving staff kept it filled with water, but the person using it had to start the fire and fill the bath themselves if they wanted it, as it was a waste of wood to keep it burning all the time. It was then drained through a pipe in the wall; some forward thinking chantry mother years ago had set the bathing room along the outside wall next to the garden. All told, it was an ingenious little system.

A stack of wood and paper was laid out beneath the cistern, which Cullen coaxed into a crackling flame before lighting the candles set around the walls and setting to remove his many layers. A small table was set along one of the walls, shelves beneath holding various soaps and toiletries, a stack of towels on top, and a clear space for placing items to keep them off the floor, upon which he neatly stacked his gear.

The water was steaming by the time he finished setting up his various cleansing items, wispy tendrils of fog filling the room. Forcefully pushing all thoughts of work from his mind, Cullen open the spigot on the cistern that emptied the water into the tub and watched the water level fall in one as it rose in the other. After ensuring the water wasn’t too hot, he sunk into it with a sigh, sliding down until all of him was submerged except for his face. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to relax.

He lay there until the water began to cool, letting the tension leak out of his body, allowing his mind to drift and yanking it away from every thought of work. After the water became too cool to stand for much longer, Cullen reluctantly cleansed himself, washing away the day. The sharp edge had, at least, been taken off his headache from the hour or so he had been soaking. Cullen pulled the plug and stood as the water began to drain away, stepping out of the water into the moisture-filled air. He was reaching for a towel when the door opened and Rosemary walked in, her head turned to the small table and clearly not noticing him standing there as the door swung shut behind her. He froze in shock, his arm held out above the table as he watched her face turn towards him. 

Her eyes widened as she realized he was there, her gaze moving from his face and downwards. He could tell the exact moment she realized he was naked. She gasped and turned to face the door, her hands rising to cover her face. Feeling the blush rising from his chest to cover the entirety of his head, Cullen quickly grabbed the towel his hand had been hovering over and wrapped it around himself, absurdly grateful that the room wasn’t as cold as the rest of the Chantry.

“I am so sorry. Josephine has this new soap and she said I could have a bar and no one told me you were in here and there was no lock on the door and Andraste’s breath I swear I had no idea,” Rosemary said, barely pausing for breath. She hadn’t moved for the door yet, seeming frozen in place. The damp air had caused the small wisps of hair that had escaped the braid that lay down Rosemary’s back to curl against her neck, and Cullen clenched his fists to resist the sudden urge to unravel her braid and sink his hands into her hair and see if it was as soft to the touch as it looked. 

Cullen realized the silence had dragged on too long without a response as Rosemary said, her voice muffled slightly by the fact her hands were still over her face, “I’ll just, um, I’ll just go then. I can get the soap later.”

“It’s, uh, it’s fine, no harm done,” Cullen said, catching himself. 

He couldn’t stop his gaze from settling on the sway of her hips and she moved towards the door and opened it, jerking his eyes up guiltily as he heard Leliana’s voice outside the door. “Josephine just told me she sent you to the bathing room – Cullen was in there and he is a prude about his nakedness.”

“Yes, I noticed, thank you, Leliana,” Rosemary said loudly before the door closed behind her with unnecessary force.

“Noticed his nakedness or his prudity?” Leliana’s muffled voice asked, the sound fading as if she was moving away from the door.

Whatever Rosemary had replied with was inaudible through the thick door. Cullen huffed in annoyance. He was not a prude. He just preferred to share his nudity with people he was engaging in sexual encounters with, and not people who would most likely make sly comments about his bottom at the war table. 

Putting the matter of his preferences with regards to nudity aside, Cullen began to get dressed slowly. His mind kept going back to Rosemary’s expression as she had looked at him. Cullen thought he had seen, for a brief moment, a flash of what he could only classify as hunger in her face before she had turned away. But that couldn’t be right; they were friendly enough, discussing the weather (and avoiding further blizzards), and she occasionally brought him a meal when she noticed he hadn’t eaten, but he had also seen her bring Josie and Leliana food. After the moment in his tent, he had briefly entertained the idea that she shared his attraction, but since then her demeanour had been nothing more than the same kindness she showed everyone. He had been respectful of her decision, of course, but he kept finding his eyes lingering too long on the curves of her body, or his fingers itching to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his initial infatuation lingering longer than was welcome, unreturned as it was.

Cullen blew out the candles as he left the room, save the last which he lifted to help light his way back to his cold tent. He had a book to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short I know but I wanted to get it out this weekend. It'll probably be a while before I update again - I am working 6 days a week and lots of overtime on weekdays and I mostly want to do things that require little to no brain after work, so I'll be puttering away at this when I feel inspired. Which, oddly, seems like more often now that my brain is exhausted.
> 
> I suppose this might also mean what comes out is incoherent, so if so, I apologize. I cannot brain.


End file.
